


The Fire We've Made

by AsheRhyder



Series: Lone Wolf [5]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Era, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Dad Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Dad Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison, Expendable Extras, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 12:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10514076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsheRhyder/pseuds/AsheRhyder
Summary: The pieces of this game were set on the board long ago. Some were kings, and some were knights, but most were pawns to be sacrificed. What poor players often forget is that every pawn holds the promise of promotion.McCree started out as a pawn. Through a little bit of luck, a lot of skill, and a hell of a lot of pain, he's made his way to the other side of the board.His reward? A chance to change the game.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Fleetwood Mac song "Peacekeeper".

**THEN:**

* * *

 

    _Jesse McCree got three things for his seventeenth birthday: he got a new pack of cigarillos that he bought himself, he got a cheap, grocery-store cupcake from the Deadlock leader, Coogan, and he got left behind to stall the Overwatch forces that stormed Deadlock’s base, also courtesy of Coogan._

_If anyone had pressed him about that third point, he would have had to admit he wasn’t too surprised. Something about Coogan always unsettled Jesse. It wasn’t overt; there was no single trait or event that stood out to make the man untrustworthy. Lots of people thought Coogan was trustworthy. He was the leader, the visionary, and the businessman - the brains that powered the gang’s operations. His gravel-rough voice gave commands that just seemed_ **right** _, and no argument ever held up against him for very long. He drew people to him, and if they got chewed up and spat out, well, that was the nature of their business. No one else seemed to notice that Coogan’s smiles stretched just a bit too far and a bit too cold, so Jesse kept his mouth shut and his eyes open. He could hear the rattle, but he couldn’t see the snake._

_When it happened, it was all too quick. One minute Jesse was sprawled across a couch in the base rec room and smoking one of his new cigarillos, the next he was dragged into a more-than-half-serious headlock under Coogan’s meaty arm._

_“I’ve got something for you,” said Coogan._

_“Sir--” Jesse squirmed. “Air--”_

_“Where’s your manners, boy? You say ‘thank you’ when someone gives you a present.”_

_“Thanks-- sir. Air? Please?”_

_Coogan dropped him to the floor, and Jesse struggled to catch his breath._

_“Ah, quit your bellyaching. I hardly touched you. Here, take this.” Coogan shoved the plastic box into Jesse’s chest. Icing smeared across the inside from the careless handling. “Happy birthday.”_

_“Uh, well. Thanks.” Jesse had been subject to a few of Coogan’s backhanded compliments recently, but he hadn’t realized he’d moved up in the man’s good graces enough to warrant gifts. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it; Coogan seemed to give people things less for the act of giving and more to incur a sense of indebtedness. And it escalated. Ask for a light, owe him a cigarette later, or an ammo clip borrowed in one fight could be leverage for him taking the whole gun in another. He wasn't sure where a cupcake would lead._

_“What was that?”_

_Jesse fumbled to cover the wariness in his voice._

_“Thanks, sir.”_

_“Good, good. All right, you eat that, and then we’ll see about--”_

_The alarms went off, emergency lights bathing the base in red._

_“The hell--?” Jesse pulled out his gun._

_“Coogan! Sir! It’s Overwatch!” One of the younger members, a fleet-footed kid not much older than Jesse, scrambled up to them. Coogan seized him by the shirt and lifted him off his feet._

_“Overwatch? Are you sure?”_

_“Yessir. Some of ‘em got the blues on, sir.”_

_“Only some?”_

_“Rest of ‘em are wearing black.”_

_“I knew it. Blackwatch.” Coogan growled but grinned at the same time. The effect reminded Jesse of a large predator baring its teeth. “We hit the big time, boys! All right, let’s meet ‘em at the gate. Hancock, Delgado, Vargas, Jung, Rand, head on up to the front. Iglesia, Monroe, McCree, you’re with me. Anyone you see, you tell ‘em to give these bastards hell. We’ll show ‘em what it means to mess with Deadlock.”_

_Jesse followed Coogan down one hall and out towards the loading docks. Gunfire and screams echoed throughout the base, interrupted by the occasional_ **bang** _of grenades. Coogan paused and glanced over his company. Jesse didn’t like the way his eyes glittered._

_“McCree,” said Coogan._

_“Sir,” said Jesse, because there wasn’t much point to saying anything else._

_“I need you to hold this point.”_

_Jesse did not need to look at the too-wide hall, the too-high ceilings, or the too-many nooks from which a too-clever enemy could take as many careful shots as their heart desired to know that it was a doomed endeavor._

_“What, by myself?” He squawked, then flinched under Coogan’s glare._

_“You got that little trick you do. I know you can do this. In fact, you’re the only one who can.”_

_“Yeah, but -- sir--”_

_“I gotta get the guys from the south end of the compound. If we flank ‘em, we can wipe ‘em out. Won’t that be a notch in our belts, eh? You’ll never have to buy a drink again.”_

_“Yeah, but sir--”_

_“McCree, are you questioning my orders?”_

_“No sir, but--”_

_“Then hold this damn point ‘til I get back.”_

_“Yes, sir.” Jesse spat out the last word, but Coogan didn’t catch the venom hidden in it. Coogan gave him a slap on the back that almost knocked him off his feet and shared an unreadable look with his lieutenants._

_“Good boy. We’ll be back in a jiffy. Just buy us some time.”_

_Jesse didn’t say anything. What could he have said? Coogan turned immediately and took off down the side hall, leaving him to find whatever safe ground he could. Jesse settled in behind a pillar and focused on the sounds around him. There was gunfire in the distance, growing closer, and two sets of footsteps, one growing louder and the other fading away. Coogan’s group suddenly turned north, away from the rest of the compound, towards the garage._

_“Son of a bitch.”_

_He wasn’t surprised. Not really. Not even when he heard the engine rev and then roar away. The incoming footsteps got louder, impossible to ignore anymore._

_“Bought and sold for a cupcake. Well. Happy birthday to me.” He focused on the approaching team. A dozen agents, at least. The heaviness to the tread gave away military training and equipment. They didn’t even sound winded after working their way through what must have been the entire rest of the gang. “That bastard left me here to die. Shit._ I’m going to die _.”_

_Twelve agents, and only six bullets in his gun. Even if he could wring every ounce of speed out of the second-hand weapon, even if he could keep it from jamming, even if he had time to reload, he wouldn’t have time to aim a second round. Resignation dried out his heart like too much desert sunlight. The weight of the gun in his hand was suddenly all but unbearable._

_Maybe he could run. Maybe he could put off the inevitable. Maybe he could fight off the Grim Reaper. No one else needed to die, not for Coogan._

_He stepped out from behind the pillar and raised his gun._

_“Stay back! I don’t wanna fire, but I’ll take you out at the knee if you come any closer!” he warned. The agents did not look impressed. They moved forward. He stared death in the eye, and he didn’t blink. He fired._

_Six bullets pierced the knees of the six closest agents, who fell over with shouts and curses. One of them dropped a canister, which started blinking._ Grenade _. Jesse threw himself behind a stack of crates just before it exploded._

_There was heat. There was pressure. There was the scream of twisting metal._

_There was pain._

_There was darkness._

_There was nothing._

 

_When he woke, he was alone in a cell, handcuffed to a table. Everything ached, from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toenails. The tang of his own blood and sweat faded into familiarity as he waited. Hours flowed like molasses on a winter’s day, and he cursed his internal clock which unerringly tracked the passage of each day even without the sun to guide him._

_Sometimes agents came in and tried to interrogate him. They asked questions he ignored and made threats that made him laugh, and he watched them with eyes that promised death. To their credit,_ most _of the agents did not flinch from his gaze._

_Day after day, he survived. Day after day, it sank deeper into his bones: he was alone. He was abandoned. If he was going to live -- and it became increasingly doubtful he would - it would be up to him to figure out how._

_So when, on the fifth day, the door opened and Gabriel Reyes’ incandescent anger spilled around him like fire on the mountainside, Jesse listened to his pretty speech. He took the man’s words to heart; not because he believed in them, no. Believing a commander’s words was what got him into trouble in the first place._

_He held onto Gabriel’s lines about coming back because he hoped, one day, he’d get to throw them back in the man’s face._

 

_And he did._

_Just not the way he thought he would._


	2. Chapter 2

**_THEN:_ **

* * *

 

_ Jesse didn’t trust Overwatch when he first joined, though he didn’t let it show. Only fools believed in heroes. Blackwatch was no better - the bloody left hand hiding a knife while the clean right hand waved for the cameras. Only an idiot would trust a group of scum like himself masquerading as ‘the good guys’ _ . 

_ He especially didn’t trust Gabriel. He saw the wrath of titans in the man’s eyes, a fury to burn the world down and a will to withstand the same flames. Whatever force it was that gave Gabriel the strength to leash that power, Jesse neither knew its name nor trusted its fortitude.  _

 

__ _ Jesse kept a weather eye on his new employers, testing the waters even as Blackwatch threw him into the deep end. He wasn’t surprised. He expected any organization that scavenged its members from conquered operations like Deadlock wouldn’t consider those assets to be worth extensive training and would regard them, ultimately, as expendable.  _

__ _ And they were, for the most part. Jesse saw two squadmates die on his very first Blackwatch mission a week later. It was a quick and dirty wetworks op to kill a mid-level gun runner who decided that causing civil unrest between human and Omnic populations was a good way to drum up business. Jesse made similar runs on rival gangs not a month earlier. It should have been cakewalk, but they lost the element of surprise when their clumsy tank knocked over a vase. Guards poured into the halls like angry wasps, and Gabriel spat curses as they forced their way through, losing both tank and support in the process.  _

__ _ “Stick close, Firecracker,” he snapped when Jesse tried to move ahead. “I don’t like the layout of this place.”  _

__ _ “Why not? It’s nothing special.” Jesse knew that to be a lie even as he said it, but there was no time for real caution. He kicked open the next door, and someone inside nailed him with a shot that would have caught a taller man in the knees. Instead, the bullet went through the meat of his thigh, sending him crumpling to the floor from the force, but not badly enough that he couldn’t pay the bastard back with a bullet between the eyes. Gabriel swept in and scoured the room of other life, leaving only smoking remains.  _

__ _ “How bad?” He asked as Jesse tried to pull himself up and to his feet.  _

__ _ “I ain’t running,” he sighed. “But I ain’t lying down and dying, neither.”  _

__ _ “All right. Watch my six. We’ll take it nice and slow, finish mopping this lot up, and--”  _

__ _ “Reyes, we got a problem.” One of their defenders came on the comm.  _

__ _ “What kind of problem?” Gabriel growled, peering back into the hall and firing at someone still moving.  _

__ _ “The kind with a digital counter and no red wires.”  _

__ _ “Start with that!” Gabriel snarled.  _

__ _ “Two minutes to detonation. Permission to run like hell?”  _

__ _ “Granted, but if you evac without me, I’m crawling  _ **out** _ of Hell to drag you  _ **in** _.”  _

__ _ “Got it.”  _

__ _ Gabriel glanced at Jesse’s leg. His brows knit together in a fearsome scowl. Jesse gritted his teeth and tried to start running for the door. A captured scream rattled in his lungs where it couldn’t break free. His knee quavered, but he kept his balance. One step, then another. He’d die if he didn’t run.  _

__ _ Gabriel dropped into a crouch, his back to Jesse.  _

__ _ “Climb on,” he growled. Jesse blinked, but the sharp survivor’s instinct drove him to obey. He clambered piggyback and pushed the scream down farther as Gabriel hefted him up with no discernable effort.  _

__ _ “Anything comes at us, it’s up to you to shoot it.” Gabriel said. Jesse grunted in response, though his stomach turned. Surely Gabriel couldn’t make it clear in under two minutes? Certainly not while carry deadweight like Jesse.  _

__

__ _ Gabriel started running.  _

 

__ Enhanced _ , thought Jesse, remembering all sorts of rumors about secret government projects to create super soldiers.  _ Gotta be enhanced, but even then, there’s no way we’re making it--

__ _ Jesse barely managed to shoot a straggling guard as they whipped around a corner. Gabriel didn’t bother with praise, and Jesse wouldn’t begrudge him the air when he was literally being carried to safety, but the strange hitch to the shoulders beneath him reminded him of a laugh enough that he grinned despite the pain.  _

__ _ The seconds drained away as Gabriel cleared the courtyard. With every step, Jesse’s surety that he would be sent sprawling to the ground faded into confusion. The grip around his legs never faltered. Gabriel kept running all the way to the drop ship, even after they were well clear of the compound and the explosion that consumed it.  _

 

__ _ Gabriel dropped him onto the ship’s conference table and started barking orders to the remaining team members to get underway before grabbing a medkit.  _

__ _ “Can you swallow ?” he asked.  _

__ _ Jesse forsook the chance for a snappy one-liner in favor of a minute shake of the head. The adrenaline was wearing off, and pain came to collect on the debt owed to it with its favorite enforcer, nausea.  _

__ _ Gabriel grunted and pulled out a couple of canisters filled with blue liquid. Jesse took it as a bad sign that he didn’t even feel an injection. Gabriel set to work bandaging his wounds, but Jesse could hardly keep track of it. His head floated, full of cotton and scraps of lightning insulated in bubbles. Words dripped down from his brain and leaked between cracks in his walls that he’d never noticed before. _

_ “I didn’t think we were gonna make it,” he said.  _

__ _ Gabriel snorted and kept binding. Jesse kept talking to fill the silence.  _

__ _ “You just kept going, that whole time! Thought for sure you were gonna drop me.” _

__ _ “You’re not the first person I’ve carried off the field,” said Gabriel. “Not even the heaviest. Not by a longshot.” _

__ _ “Couldn’t have been sure, though.” Jesse shook his head, a gesture made easier by the anesthetic properties in the medkit. “You could’ve been clear on your own. You could’ve left me.” _

__ _ Gabriel’s face twisted into an unreadable expression.  _

__ _ “Firecracker,” he said, both warning and consolation.  _

__ _ “Coogan left me.” The admission spilled out without filter or guilt. “Wanted me to hold y'all off. Said he was getting reinforcements, but I heard him run. Left me to die.” _

__ _ “You didn’t die,” said Gabriel. “Then or now.” _

__ _ Jesse’s mouth stretched into a rictus grin.  _

__ _ “Well, happy birthday to me,” he marveled. “This is a much better present than what Coogan gave me. Thank you kindly, boss.” _

__ _ Gabriel went deathly still.  _

__ _ “Birthday?” _

__ _ “The day you came a-knockin’. Had a cupcake and everything. Didn’t get to eat it. Do you think it got blown up, too? Or did they take it as evidence? Can I still eat it if it’s evidence, since it’s mine and I’m yours now?” _

__ _ “You said you were seventeen.” _

__ _ “Yessir. I am now, sir. Seventeen, sir.” _

__ _ Gabriel said nothing.  _

__ _ Exhaustion and drugs dragged Jesse’s eyes closed.  _

__ _ “Thank you, boss.” He mumbled into the dark. _

__ _ “What for, Firecracker?” _

__ _ Jesse didn’t answer, and Gabriel didn’t mention it again.  _

 

* * *

 

**NOW:**

* * *

 

Technically, everything is going according to plan. Tracer and Mei are inside, downloading data that will tie a corrupt politician to two known terrorist organizations. Lúcio is on standby with them, ready to speed-boost them out as soon as they’re finished. The decoy is still working, drawing all the security away from the infiltration team. 

The decoy is made up of McCree, Reaper, and Soldier:76, and Soldier is currently pinned down, under heavy fire, and low on biotic emitters. There’s an open courtyard between them and the old soldier because Jack ran out of patience for just about damn near everything around the time the original Overwatch fell. He bolted across it in one go, but Reaper and McCree aren’t sprinting men, and they had to fall back with the enemy taking shots at them from behind a blast shield. The split in their forces is unfortunate, but not the worst of their problems: 

Reaper is about to lose his shit. 

McCree can see it in the way his former mentor moves: the barely-restrained violence in his posture, the too-controlled breathing, the tendrils of shadow that snake out from under him. He estimates they have another forty-five seconds before Reaper’s temper snaps, or until Soldier takes another significant hit, whichever comes first. 

Reaper makes another attempt to cross the courtyard, but a sniper lands a shot that staggers him. Any other man probably would have died immediately. 

“Reaper!” Soldier cries, harsh and desperate. McCree hears helix rockets knock the enemy from their perch, but there’s nothing to indicate their numbers are lessened. He doesn’t look to check; he swoops in, grabs Reaper, and hauls him back to cover. He’s lighter than McCree would have thought, and not just because of the chunk missing from his skull, which is leaking black smoke instead of blood. McCree drops his hat over the wound to keep anymore of it from wafting away. 

“Lúcio, status.” He barks into the comm. 

“Unplugging and on our way.” 

McCree’s mouth thins to a frown. He’s got two wounded super-soldiers and two glass speedsters with an ice faux-tank incoming, and there’s a mess of grunts and snipers between the lot. It’s feasible. Not ideal, but feasible. 

“Boss, you okay to move?” He asks. Reaper responds with a low, rumbling sound that completely bypasses a human mouth. McCree takes it as a ‘yes’. “All right. I’m calling down an  _ Eclipse _ .” 

“McCree, no--” Jack growls. 

“On my mark. Y’all know what to do.” 

Soldier curses. Reaper’s growl turns thunderous. 

“McCree, I don’t think we’ll be there in time.” Lúcio says. 

“You’re in  _ Meteor Shower,  _ not  _ Eclipse. _ ” 

“Yeah, but--” 

Reaper turns completely to smoke, and McCree bites out a bilingual curse. 

“Now!” He steps back onto the courtyard as Reaper drifts out a side maintenance door. The sun burns on his back, boiling his blood. “ _ It’s high noon. _ ” 

It’s three-thirty, really, but he pulls the midday heat, reaches into that deadly desert stillness, and lets it drown out the hissing commotion of his enemies’ panicked gunfire. He shoots early - these are a higher class of goon, and he’s taking too much damage waiting for the perfect shot. There’s a strange, thunderous echo intermingled with screams from the other side of the blast shield. Emerald ripples through the sky and fades as the black cloud descends and Reaper reforms, encased in a sonic barrier. 

“ _ Die, die, die! _ ” Bodies fall like rain, but McCree doesn’t relax until the last one standing is Reaper, whole once more and still wearing McCree’s hat. “Yippie-kai-yi-ai, mother fuckers.”

“What is it with you old guys and movie quotes?” Lúcio asks as he skates up. McCree’s shoulders finally sag as Tracer and Mei come around the corner, looking triumphant while trying not to giggle at Reaper in the battered cowboy hat. 

“All right, bring it in.” McCree sighs. Lúcio switches his track to healing, and the pain slowly fades away. Reaper and Soldier converge on him like weather fronts, and he has no doubt that they’re wearing matching expressions of annoyed concern beneath their masks.

“I hate  _ Eclipse, _ ” Soldier grunts. 

“I don’t much like it either, but Boss was in a bad way, and we didn’t have time for anything else.” 

“Find another way,” Reaper growls. 

“You had half your damn head blown off. It’s a wonder you could even go through with it!” 

“Probably the only reason I  _ did. _ ” Reaper shoves McCree’s hat back into place and stalks off towards the drop ship. Soldier follows without another word. 

“Dunno what he’s so worked up about,” McCree grumbles. “I was saving his ass, and it worked, too.” 

Lúcio purses his lips and taps a finger on McCree’s breastplate, where three bullets are lodged into the metal over his heart. 

“You really don’t see?” He asks. 

McCree snorts. 

“Part of the job, Leapfrog. Gotta call ‘em as I see ‘em. We lose Soldier, Reaper goes berserk. We lose Reaper, Soldier goes AWOL.” 

“We lose you, we’re gonna have an awfully angry dragon when we get home.” Lúcio points out. “Not to mention all the rest of us who’ll be really upset.” 

“I was at full health.” McCree shakes his head. “Best chance of getting out alive. And, I don’t know why I gotta keep mentioning this,  _ it worked. _ ” 

Lúcio holds up his hands. 

“I’m just saying. Don’t want you thinking we don’t appreciate you.” 

“I know my measure.” The depth of McCree’s voice harkens back to the days when the team was still new, finding each other’s boundaries. Back then, McCree was a fortress in the desert, remote and unassailable in his isolation. He’s different now; the doors are open, the desert less harsh and more alive, but it cannot change its nature entirely. 

Lúcio nods, accepting the reminder, and heads for the ship. 

McCree takes one last look at the battlefield, shoots a man who wasn’t quite dead enough for his peace of mind, and heads for home. 

 

 

Winston, Jack, Ana, and Gabriel meet in the little-used Commander’s office sometime later and stare at the dossiers on the holoscreen in front of them. 

“This is a bad idea,” Gabriel growls. “I shouldn’t be here for this.” 

“You got a better suggestion?” Jack raises an eyebrow. 

“Reinhardt. Or Torbjörn. They’re both senior agents, and neither of them joined the bad guys.” 

“Neither of them are tacticians, either.” Ana points out. “We’re not asking you to plan the missions, Gabriel. We just want your recommendation on who should.” 

Gabriel’s gaze cuts between the three of them. 

“Four’s a shit number for a tie-breaker.” 

“Not a tie-breaker.” Winston clears his throat. “Well, I mean. We each proposed a different candidate.” 

“Some people are just being stubborn,” says Jack in the tone of voice of someone who is excluding himself from a group that should most definitely include him. 

“You are  _ not _ dragging my daughter into this, Jack Morrison.” Ana says sharply. 

“She’s the best qualified. She’s tactically-minded, military trained, has experience leading a team, and has the best view of the field to make snap decisions.” 

“You are  _ not  _ dropping that mantle on her.” Ana snaps. “I will not let you saddle her with a weight you could not carry.” 

“She can handle it.” 

“Winston’s doing a fine job.” She says, turning back to Gabriel. “I don’t see why he should step down.” 

“I’m… really not comfortable being in charge like this.” Winston winces. “I mean, I’m glad it’s working, and that everyone’s happy, but I’m not sure how much good I’ll be in the big picture. I’m much happier doing research. And, well. I suggested Jack.” 

“Can’t do it,” says Jack. “Called in dead.” 

Gabriel cracks a laugh. 

“Not falling for the same ruse twice, eh, Jackie?” 

“Hated doing it the first time.” Jack grimaces. “What good is being dead if you can’t get out of the shit you don’t want to do?” 

“You see the conundrum,” Winston sighs. 

Gabriel stays silent a long moment. 

“All right,” he says at last. “I got a suggestion.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**THEN:**

* * *

 

 

_ Usually, missions at least  _ **_started_ ** _ before they fell apart, but this one seemed cursed from the beginning. Spotty intel, team infighting, shitty weather, and the lives of thirty-two kids on the line meant tensions were already high when Ling and Achebe hit their breaking points and each other. Gabriel stepped between them, but Ling was already mid-punch. The blow itself did little damage, but Gabriel took a step back for balance, and the rain-soaked ground gave way, spilling him down a hill.  _

__ _ “Oh shit,” gasped McCree, skidding down after him. “Boss!”  _

__ _ “If he’s not dead, he’s going to skin you,” Corbeau grinned horribly. “And if he is, McCree will do it for him, the little brown-noser.”  _

__ _ Thane, the closest thing the team had to a medic, said nothing and picked his way carefully down the hill.  _

__ _ By the time they got to Gabriel, the Commander was at least sitting upright. Thane gave him a perfunctory lookover.  _

__ _ “Concussion,” he signed. “Bad one. Don’t let him shoot.”  _

__ _ “Fuck that,” groaned Gabriel. “We’ve been chasing this guy for weeks.” _

__ _ “Can’t go in guns blazing like this, sir.” Corbeau said with mock concern. “Best to head back, wait it out. There will be other chances to bring him down.”  _

__ _ “But not to save these kids.” Gabriel tried to straighten up. Thane held him down with one hand.  _

__ _ “They’re just kids,” Ling said. “People will have more.”  _

__ _ “Don’t.” Achebe hissed.  _

__ _ “I’m just saying. No point in all of us dying ‘cause Reyes is too fucked up to shoot straight.”  _

__ _ Gabriel responded by leveling his shotgun at Ling. His hand barely shook.  _

__ _ “Don’t.”  _

__ _ Thane rolled his eyes in the way of someone who deeply felt the injustice of being unable to scream expletives at everyone stupider than him, which was the entire rest of the world.  _

__ _ “Some lines even we don’t cross. Got it?” Gabriel said.  _

__ _ “Fine,” Ling muttered.  _

__ _ Gabriel raised an eyebrow.  _

__ _ “Yeah, I got it.”  _

__ _ “You still can’t go,” Thane signed.  _

__ _ “ _ **_Kids_ ** _ , Thane.”  _

__ _ “We can hardly run the mission with just the five of us. Not without our gallant Commander, anyway.” Corbeau said.  _

__ _ “Actually, we can,” said McCree, straightening up. The rest of the team stared at him skeptically, except for Gabriel, whose gaze turned appraising. “If Ling takes point instead of right wing, and Achebe and Corbeau pull a fast sweep-pinch up both sides, then Thane can keep Boss up in the sniper’s blind with him as a second pair of eyes while he covers.”  _

__ _ “Oh yeah? And where will you be, you little punk?” Ling puffed up in an attempt to make himself larger than McCree. It half-worked; he was broader, but Gabriel’s insistence on giving McCree vitamin supplements had given the younger man the height advantage.  _

__ _ “At your six, same as I would be for Boss.” McCree said evenly.  _

__ _ “I’m not taking orders from some new-blood little kid!” Ling snapped.  _

__ _ “I’m not giving any orders,” McCree held up his hands peaceably. “I’m just pointing it out. I think it could work. You’re the tank here, Ling, the only one of us who’s going to last any length time in a frontal assault. You’re packing nearly as much firepower as Boss. Anyhow, this asshole ain’t gonna be expecting us to go knocking on his front door, and can you imagine how badass that will look?”  _

__ _ “You think?” Ling pondered, something he was not inherently fond of doing.  _

__ _ “If you’re leading the way? Yeah, I think.” McCree said. The shadows under his hat hid his eyes. Ling puffed up again, this time with pride.  _

__ _ “All right, then, let’s go!” He stomped towards the starting point.  _

__ _ “You  _ **_really_ ** _ think this is going to work?” Achebe gave him a more scrutinizing look, but McCree just stared after Ling.  _

__ _ “Man’s got all the subtlety of a brick to the face,” he said, “but he can hold the entrance while we take down the numbers. It’ll even out. You and Corbeau are gonna have to move quick, though. Clear your paths in. We’ll be counting on you to come back around.” _

__ _ Achebe nodded and headed after Ling. Corbeau leaned down until she could peer up under McCree’s hat and stare into his eyes.  _

__ _ “Well, well. Who knew the little wolf pup had a viper’s fangs all along?” she purred. “Sending Ling to the frontlines. My, what a cruel bite you have. Feeding his ego until he’s fit to burst.”  _

__ _ “He wants to be in charge.” McCree said quietly. “Easy enough to let him feel like he is.”  _

__ _ “And Achebe?”  _

__ _ “Wants to be efficient. Needed.”  _

__ _ “And me? What do I want, hmm?”  _

__ _ McCree tilted his head up. His eyes were narrow and dark, and he stared at her with the same unflinching patience he used to measure the distance between life and death before pulling the trigger.  _

__ _ His gaze dropped suddenly, and she smiled hungrily.  _

__ _ “Right,” he murmured. “You want to be right about me.”  _

__ _ “And am I?”  _

__ _ McCree said nothing, and she laughed. Corbeau patted his cheek and ran after Achebe. McCree shuddered and tapped Thane on the arm to draw his attention from Gabriel, who had gone silent.  _

__ _ “Is Boss okay, for real?”  _

__ _ “He will be.” Thane shrugged. “You are good at that.”  _

__ _ “That? What that? Dealing with Corbeau?”  _

__ _ “All of us.”  _

__ _ “Yeah, well.” McCree took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “Ain’t a skill to be proud of.”  _

__ _ Thane smirked.  _

__ _ “Depends on why you do it,” he signed and helped Gabriel to his feet. The Commander swayed, but stayed up.  _

__ _ “Firecracker,” he grunted.  _

__ _ “Yes, Boss?”  _

__ _ “Bring those kids home.”  _

__ _ “You got it, Boss.”  _

 

__ _ In retrospect, the mission was an ugly thing, a massacre that left pools of blood on the floor and took out the entire west wing of the compound. Blackwatch missions didn’t get recorded the way Overwatch missions did, so the public never heard about the recovery of the thirty-two kids, or the twenty-odd kids they also saved that weren't in the initial reports. There was no record of Ling turning his chaingun on an army of mercenaries, shrugging through bullets that Thane had to dig out of him later. There was no record of Achebe and Corbeau zipping through the halls, slitting throats amidst Thane’s headshots. There was no record of McCree putting a bullet in the trafficker’s head, or what happened to the body afterwards.  _

 

__ _ It was a Blackwatch mission. All the file said was: COMPLETE.  _

 

* * *

 

**NOW:**

* * *

 

 

Jesse and Fareeha arrive at the Commander’s office at the same time. Neither knows why they’ve been summoned, and it drags up a long-buried guilt associated with youthful mischief. 

“Just like old times, huh?” Jesse gives her a hangdog grin. 

“What did you do?” she demands with the instant defensiveness of a put-upon sibling.

“Hell if I know.” He sighs. “All I got was a message from Athena, telling me to report.” 

“I received the same.” Fareeha nods stiffly. 

“Well, there’s any number of reasons they could call me before the bench, but I swear I didn’t pull you with me.” 

She chuckles, but her mother opens the door, and she immediately sobers in the face of potential parental scolding. 

“Don’t just stand in the hall. Come in, you two.” 

The oppressive feeling of impending censure intensifies as they step inside and see a wall of broad shoulders and serious faces. 

“Whatever it is, I didn’t do it.” Jesse says automatically. That, at least, makes Gabriel crack a smile. 

“At ease,” Jack says. “We wanted to talk to you two about something important.” 

“Do you want to lead Overwatch?” Winston blurts out, earning annoyed glares from Jack, Gabriel, and Ana. 

Jesse whoops and claps Fareeha on the shoulder. 

“You’re gonna be a great commander, Ace.” His grin and cheer helps ease some of her shock. 

“I-- what?” 

“Ease them into it, I said.” Jack grumbles. “Don’t just drop it on them like a bomb.” 

“Sorry, I panicked.” Winston shuffles. 

“But you--” Fareeha glances between them. “Winston, you’ve led for two years!” 

“No, I just answered questions and looked into problems.” He fiddles with his glasses. “To be honest, I don’t feel like I’ve got the necessary experience to lead operations with the way things are escalating, nor do I want to.” 

“Mother--” Fareeha turns to Ana, whose gaze is warm and sad.

“I never wanted this life for you, but you chose it for yourself, and you do it well.” She says. ‘I’m very proud of you.” 

Jesse hugs her. 

“We gotta throw you a party!” He crows. 

“Firecracker,” says Gabriel, and Jesse freezes. 

“Boss?” 

“Fareeha’s not the only one here for a status announcement.” 

Jesse smiles nervously. 

“Aww, Boss, don’t tell me you’re firing me?” 

“He can’t fire anyone. He’s dead.” Jack snorts. “And since you never got your damn forms signed right the first time you tried to quit, you’ve got seniority. Especially since we’re offering you a command position, too.” 

“What.” The color drains out of Jesse’s face. 

“We decided to use a cooperative leadership model.” Winston explains. “You two are almost never on the same team, so it minimizes the chance of losing the whole command structure if something goes wrong. You both have excellent qualifications, and there’s a lot you can offer to the organization. Also, you two get along pretty well without having any of that other… unfortunate… uh… background… stuff....” Winston looks at Gabriel and Jack with what he thinks is subtlety. “...anyway, you both do good work.” 

“Wait a minute, I can’t be a field commander!” Jesse protests, half falling out of his chair. 

“Why not, Firecracker?” Gabriel drawls. “I’ve seen you lead before. And you’re the one who comes up with all the damn tactical combos and team names already.” 

“Have you forgotten the part where I’m a wanted man?” 

“Took care of it.” Gabriel says, short and gruff, belying a longer, complicated, and possibly ridiculous story. 

“You ‘took care of it’?” Jesse stares. “What, did you fake my death while I wasn’t looking?” 

“That would be cliche at this point,” mutters Ana. 

“How are you planning to get around a sixty million dollar bounty?!”

“Overwatch gave you that bounty to start with. Seemed fitting we should get rid of it, too.” Jack says. “Gabe called in some favors from his more colorful connections to clear out the details.” 

“You can say it, Jack.” Gabriel rolls his eyes. “I used my bad-guy resources to get your record expunged and your bounty revoked.”

Jesse gapes. 

“Couldn’t do much about personal contracts-- she didn’t owe me that much of a favor, still needed to bribe a bit -- but I had enough for this.” 

“Congratulations?” Fareeha pats Jesse on the shoulder as he slumps back into his chair. 

“In all seriousness, we are hoping the two of you work together to carry Overwatch forward,” says Ana. “We’ve had our chance. Now it’s your turn. Between the two of you, you have all the skills and experience to make great leaders. I suggest you each put together a few rosters so you can start arranging trainings. We’ll make a formal announcement in the morning, if you accept.” 

“I won’t let you down,” says Fareeha. Jesse stares mutely at Gabriel, eyes burning. Fareeha elbows him in the side. 

“You really want me in on this?” he asks. “Ace? What about you?” 

“I have lead alone before,” she shrugs, “but there is no replacement for an equal to balance you.”

Jesse sits silently a little longer. Winston begins to fidget. 

“This isn’t rocket science, kid.” Jack grunts. “We didn’t put you through on a whim.” Jesse gives him a sour look that softens as he considers Ana and Winston. 

“All right.” He nods. “I’ll do it.” 

 

He lingers in the office as Fareeha and her mother drift out, talking faintly with Jack and Winston. Gabriel waits with him, ever the shadow in the background. 

“Why me, Boss?” McCree asks when they’re alone. “I know you put me forward. You looking for another Blackwatch?” 

The look Gabriel gives him hits as hard as a shotgun blast at point blank range. 

“Fareeha’s good. She’s got everything she needs to lead solo, but I’ve seen what that does to people in this kind of position.” 

“There are others better suited to help her.” 

“But you’re the biggest bastard who will.” 

Jesse doesn’t reel back or even flinch. He goes still, always still. 

“Your enemies won’t play fair, Firecracker. The good guys have to, or at least they have to try. Someone’s got to know what’s the worst they can throw at you. Someone’s got to watch that line.” 

    McCree’s gaze hardens. In its den, his inner hunter stirs, roused from its sated sleep at the memory of hungry times. There’s justice, and  _ justice _ , and  _ just us _ , and he has the scars of each to tell the difference. He sets his jaw. 

“I’ll keep watch.” 

 

    McCree makes seven rosters to start, two of which are designed to be run concurrently. He stays up all night, shuffling files on his datapad. Hanzo doesn’t complain; he just makes sure that Jesse takes the datapad to bed to work. He falls asleep with one arm wrapped around Jesse’s waist, still smiling proudly. 

 

The first team that McCree calls together, however, is not one of his official seven. The message that goes out isn’t addressed to any codenamed group, as is his tradition, but to individuals, listing only a time, a place, and a code to enter a secure office. 

Hanzo arrives first, or is at least the first one willing to step up to the door. Genji follows, then Ana, Jack, and Gabriel. Certain thoughts visibly cross their minds as they notice the subtle pattern to the assembled. 

McCree waits inside with a scrambler on the table and a distant look in his eyes. 

“Lady and gents,” he says, “Welcome to ShadowWatch.” 

 

Jack turns on his heel to walk out, but Gabriel grabs his hand. 

“Wait,” he urges. “Hear him out. You can always storm out dramatically after.” 

Jack scowls. Jesse chuckles. 

“Sorry, sorry. Bit of bad humor on my part, I guess.” 

“You get that from your father.” Jack grumbles and misses the startled, smothered pleasure that crosses Gabriel’s face. 

“I think you better start explaining,” Ana says, “because this set-up puts me in mind of one thing, and I do not care for it in the slightest.” 

“This isn’t black-ops.” Jesse shakes his head and stands up. “This group, ShadowWatch, is only meant for one kind of mission, and it ain’t likely y'all will ever be deployed together to do it.”

Hanzo raises an eyebrow. 

“What is the purpose, then, of calling us all together?” 

“I want you all to know what I’m asking you to do and know that you’re not alone in the task. So if you are deployed with someone else in ShadowWatch, you’ll know you’ve got backup.” Jesse stands and puts his hands on the table, leaning in. “ShadowWatch has one job, and one job only:  _ bring our team home _ .” 

Jack tenses, but McCree goes on. 

“It’s like this: this job is rough. It ain’t kind to us. Someone needs to watch our backs and make sure no one gets left behind when everything goes south. I want that someone to be somebody who knows the dirtiest tricks our enemies can pull -- because they  _ will _ pull them. I want these people to be the kinds of people who can do whatever it takes to bring our people home. That would be y'all.” 

Cautious, curious looks are exchanged. 

“We have support agents,” Jack says warily. 

“And this ain’t in any way meant to impose on their turf.” Jesse replies evenly. “This ain’t about healing or defensible maneuverability. This is retrieval. One way or another, everyone comes home.” He stares unblinkingly at Ana, at Jack, at Gabriel. “No more empty graves.” 

Hanzo clears his throat. 

“If this is not a team, how will it work?” 

“At least one of y'all will be on every one of my rosters.” McCree says. “I’ve talked to Fareeha, too. This isn’t a secret, we just ain’t advertising. When you get deployed, consider it your additional objective to bring everyone back. I reckon we’d all try anyway, but as far as ShadowWatch is concerned, it’s your overarching order.” 

“No more empty graves,” Gabriel rumbles, staring at his former protege. 

“Well, I came out to get an assignment, and honestly I feel so attacked right now.” Jack deadpans. Genji chuckles. 

The assembled not-quite-a-team regard each other a moment more, distance in their eyes giving away when their thoughts turn inward. McCree gives them time, no longer the sheepdog but the shepherd. 

 

Hanzo steps up first, which is predictable. Jack steps up second, which is not. Ana sleep-darts Genji to get third, but Gabriel hangs back until the end. 

“Gabriel?” McCree says, holding out his hand. Gabriel sighs and takes it. 

“Still not calling you ‘Boss’,” he grumbles. 

“Wouldn’t have any other way, Boss. Wouldn’t have it any other way.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**THEN:**

* * *

 

__ _ The only warning before a traditional Morrison-Reyes fight was hidden in the evening international news. Stories of bloody, frightfully fast coups, of the sudden and violent deaths of drug dealers and gun runners, or of explosive encounters in places the U.N. had no authority always signaled a confrontation coming.  _

__ _ They started off small. Usually in public, in some well-intentioned but ultimately ineffective attempt to let social norms rein them in. Gabriel always slunk onto base smelling like blood and gunsmoke and a cruel dose of reality’s harshest lessons; within half an hour, Jack would have tracked him down.  _

__ _ If the bystanders were lucky, Gabriel got to the coffee machine first.  _

__ _ “How’d the mission go, Gabe?” Jack asked every time.  _

__ _ “Fine.” Gabriel always replied, even when he’d tracked bloody footprints into the canteen and had his guts held together with duct tape.  _

__ _ “Looks like you ran into a little trouble.”  _

__ _ “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”  _

__ _ “I heard otherwise.”  _

__ _ “Well, you heard wrong.”  _

__ _ Jack inevitably brought up the news next, which never failed to make Gabriel grimace, glower, and if he were physically capable, storm off without another word.  _

__ _ On good days, Jack let him go.  _

__ _ On the bad ones, Jack followed.  _

 

__ _ “Why can’t you just keep it out of the fucking news?”  _

__ _ “Have you not been paying attention to the kinds of people we’ve been handling, Golden Boy? People  _ **_notice_ ** _ when assholes like that stop throwing their weight around. It’s  _ **_going_ ** _ to be talked about.” _

__ _ “Red Squadron literally blew up an airstrip.”  _

__ _ “An  _ **_illegal_ ** _ airstrip.”  _

__ _ “They’re not supposed to explode regardless of legality!”  _

__ _ “Well, I was on fucking Gold Squadron that week, trying to keep Kowalski from eating Verne. Which is not an exaggeration, by the way; thanks for giving me a goddamn cannibal to deal with.”  _

__ _ ‘I’m sure that’s just talk--”  _

__ _ “Jack, I saw him rip a guy’s ear off with his teeth, chew, and swallow.”  _

__ _ Jack faltered that time. He froze, frowned, and finally turned on his heel and walked away.  _

__ _ Kowalski disappeared a few weeks later. Gabriel didn’t find out until he missed training drills, and then he went ballistic.  _

__ _ He stormed towards Jack’s office like the unfolding myth of a vengeful and violent god, and lower level agents scattered before him rather than be crushed in the legend. Jesse trailed after him, smoothing down ruffled feathers until they finally burst through Jack’s door.  _

__ _ “What the fuck? You burned Kowalski?” Gabriel roared.  _

__ _ Jack sent apologetic looks to the two suited figures he was supposed to be listening to, but the civilians were too cowed by Gabriel’s aura of impending doom to notice.  _

__ _ “We’ll reschedule this another time. I’m very sorry.”  _

__ _ The two suits scrambled away, and in the chaos of their departure, Jesse faded into the background to watch. Few things entertained him as much as Jack Morrison getting knocked down a peg, regardless of whether the man deserved it or not.  _

__ _ “You fucking burned Kowalski!” Gabriel snarled.  _

__ _ “You’re damn right I burned Kowalski!” Jack snapped back. “You said so yourself, the man was a cannibal!”  _

__ _ “He wasn’t yours to burn, Jack! He was Blackwatch!”  _

__ _ “What does it matter which ‘Watch he was on? Gabe, you’re the one who told me what he was doing!”  _

__ _ “And you’re the one who foisted him on me in the first place! How am I supposed to assemble a team worth spit if you burn my roster whenever you decide you don’t like one of them?”  _

__ _ “The man was a monster!”  _

__ _ “So are half the people you saddle me with!”  _

__ _ Jesse flinched; just the slightest tension, more like an extra beat of stillness as his breath caught in his chest. Gabriel, despite not having acknowledged his presence and not being in a position to see the movement, suddenly spun around and fixed the young man with a frightful stare. The terrible control over the catastrophe that was Gabriel’s temper trembled as he bit out two words: “Not. You.”  _

__ _ Jesse swallowed audibly.  _

__ _ Jack gaped.  _

__ _ “What? Gabe-- no, that’s not the same at all--”  _

__ _ “It’s a precedent,” Gabriel hissed. “A damn bad one. Blackwatch’s people are  _ mine _. The only way they’re leaving is in body bags, and I will be the one to fucking put them there.” He swept back out of the office like the ocean running from the shore before a tidal wave. Jesse was smart enough not to follow immediately, allowing Gabriel to slam the door.  _

 

__ _ Jesse and Jack stood in awkward silence for a moment.  _

__ _ “McCree, I--”  _

__ _ “I better get after him.” Jesse pushed away from the wall. “He’s gonna be in a right foul mood for weeks now. Thanks for that, sir.”  _

__ _ “I didn’t mean you, McCree.”  _

__ _ “No? Why not? ‘Cause I don’t eat my kills?” Jesse snorted. “I killed near twice as many as Kowalski ever did, Commander, and that’s not including the ones I shot for y'all.” He shrugged and tilted his head so that his hat shadowed his eyes. “Dunno what you think is different about me. Not that I suppose it matters. By your leave, sir.”  _

__ _ Jesse didn’t wait for acknowledgement, but Jack still grunted a rough, “dismissed” as he left.  _

 

__ _ Jack never ordered a burn on any other Blackwatch agent again.  _

 

* * *

**NOW:**

* * *

 

Pharah’s first mission as a Field Commander goes well: no casualties, minimal wounds, objective met and payload delivered. Cheers and confetti all around. 

McCree’s first mission goes to hell in a handbasket, but to be fair, it’s no fault of his. No one could predict the freak weather changes that hit London and flood King’s Row in the middle of their scuffle with anti-Omnic extremists. Tracer’s time-jumping does little to keep her from being swept away. Lúcio’s skates are useless in the torrent. D.Va’s MEKA is fine, designed to be waterproof, but Torbjörn gets caught in the subway as the flood water rushes in and nearly drowns before Reaper hauls him out of there. 

“Thanks,” Torbjörn says reluctantly. Reaper just nods in reply and shadow-steps to higher ground. 

 

McCree doesn’t have a plan for this. He doesn’t have a plan for natural disasters. That’s a lie, he has three, but they’re in response to rather than in media res, and the one half-formed plan he’s got requires Mei, who’s ironically at a climate-change convention in China. Still, he didn’t survive this long without being able roll with the punches.  

“D.Va, keep that truck from heading further downtown. Reaper, give her some cover. Lúcio, you and Tracer try to get up to the second level. Torbjörn, try and pin down the opposition with a turret.” There’s too much water for him to combat roll, but Peacekeeper is thankfully waterproof, and he can load it manually and save his concern for the water trying to take out his knees. 

“Gotcha,” Tracer says. 

“What about you?” Lúcio asks. 

McCree drags himself up some rain-slicked stairs and into a fancy clubhouse. Water pools at his feet and soaks into the expensive carpet, hiding traces of blood mixed in. 

“Coming up the side,” he hisses, methodically clearing the next room of the next wave of extremists with a flashbang-and-fan-the-hammer combo. “They’re using the clubhouse as a base. Gonna try and catch ‘em on the way out.” 

“Watch your back.” Reaper says. 

“Will do.” McCree turns in time to catch one who doubled back. “You guys focus on keeping that payload out of their hands.” 

 

Eventually, they take control of the EMP bomb. Torbjörn is convinced to disarm the device, mostly by the combination of betrayed puppy eyes that Lena and Lúcio give him when he suggests keeping it for future use. 

McCree talks everyone through the after-action report on the way home and waits for them to all drift apart before he drops into a chair and silently exhales until there’s not the slightest breath left in him. His back stays straight, his eyes open so that there is no question as to his alertness, but some vital aspect is definitely diminished, and it remains that way even after he disembarks at Gibraltar and finds Hanzo waiting for him in the hanger. 

There are others present: all medical staff not currently deployed are present to help with the injuries, and those who have close ties to someone who was on the mission, and those who are simply bored. 

Jack is there, and he watches McCree’s mouth thin to a grim line at the sight of his lover instead of the elation that usually has him sweeping Hanzo into his arms. McCree shakes his head infinitesimally; Hanzo blinks and steps out of his way. 

Reaper is the only other one to notice. Everyone else is too busy with first aid or equipment to catch McCree striding silently out of the hanger. Hanzo, even more acclimated to stealth, disappears shortly thereafter. Jack starts after them, but Gabriel falls in step with him and starts trying to steer him down a different hall towards the canteen. 

“Gabe--” Jack protests. 

“I need coffee and alcohol, preferably at the same time.” Gabriel says. 

“So why are you dragging me with you?” 

“For your sparkling conversation.” Jack pulls back a little, and Gabriel sighs. “You have that look like you’re going to go meddle.” 

“I do not.” 

“Specifically, that’s the look you get when you’re about to mess with my boy.” 

“He just walked off! Didn’t even debrief!” 

“We debriefed on the way back, in the ship.” Gabriel drops a hand on Jack’s shoulder. His grip is firm but not demanding. “I can give you the record number if you need it, but give the boy some credit, and give me an Irish coffee.” 

“Gabe, I’m serious. He didn’t even touch Hanzo, and you know how he’s been since they got their acts together.” 

“I never saw them without their acts together,” Gabriel replied dryly. “I was on the other side, remember?” 

“You keep bringing that up.” 

“You can’t ignore the past, Golden Boy.” 

“Believe me, that’s the last thing I’m doing.” Their eyes lock; the solemnity of the ghosts in Jack’s gaze make Gabriel’s shadows flicker and shudder. “You used to do the exact same thing after a bad mission. I'd go after you so you didn't have to be alone, but... we just ended up fighting.” Gabriel gives him a more calculating look. Jack recognizes that expression from long-ago battlefields; it’s a sign that the man is processing new intel and about to change his tactics. His hand falls away from Jack’s shoulder, and what little warmth it carried fades quickly. Jack tries not to notice the chill left behind. 

“All right, Jack,” he says, all amusement evaporated. “We’ll check in on them.” 

He steps back and lets Jack lead. In his black gear and with his edges fading into smoke, he’s almost indistinguishable from Jack’s real shadow as they follow McCree’s path. 

 

It’s not hard to find him - he didn’t get very far. Jesse and Hanzo are bunkered down in one of the nearby conference rooms. In Jesse’s haste and Hanzo’s concern, they didn’t even get the door latched completely, so the soft sounds inside carry a little way into the hall.

“A fucking flash flood. Water in the streets past my knees. I didn’t know-- I didn’t think…” 

At first, Jack thinks Jesse might be crying. His voice is rushed, thin, almost like he’s bordering on hysteria. The uneven hiccuping noise in between his breaths doesn’t make sense, not until they get close enough to decipher the words between it. 

“It worked. It  _ worked _ . I can’t believe it. It worked.” Jesse laughs. He’s  _ laughing. _

Hanzo hums encouragingly, and there’s a rustle of creaking leather and wool scraping against silk.

“Jesse, put me down!” Hanzo hisses. “You are soaked!” 

“Heart o’ My Heart, they did it. Everything went so wrong, and they pulled together and got each other out!” 

“I am very happy for you, but you are going to catch a chill in this wet gear. Put me down, and I will help you disarm.” 

“Boss pulled Torbjörn out of a right pickle.” Jesse says breathlessly. The serape hits the floor with a water-logged slap. Jack looks at Gabriel, who shrugs nonchalantly. 

“You should have wrung this out,” Hanzo chides. 

“What, and flood the drop ship?” Jesse chuckles. 

Somehow, with a completely serious tone, Hanzo says, “You are my hardy desert flower, but you will get water-rot if you do not dry off.” 

Gabriel and Jack exchange incredulous looks as Jesse sighs happily. 

“Boss helped Torbjörn.” He says again. “The only people who get along worse with Torbjörn are made of metal.” 

“I am very glad your former mentor has taken your endeavor to heart.” Hanzo sounded a little testier over the squeak of skin slipping across metal. “This clasp never opens right. You should have it looked at.” 

“Nah, darlin’, it’s just stubborn. All the best things in life are.” 

Hanzo scoffs. 

There’s the distinct sound of a kiss. 

Gabriel taps Jack on the shoulder and jerks his head; time to go. 

Jack slips away without a word of further protest.


	5. Chapter 5

**THEN:**

* * *

 

 

_ Jesse thought about Coogan a lot when he sat down to consider his life’s direction, mostly in the early days, before he had other things to think about. It was impossible not to compare his old commander to his new one; sometimes the similarities sent chills down Jesse’s spine.  _

__ _ They were not men of gentility; they yelled commands and gave bloody orders. They were at their most dangerous when their voices dropped and they let their actions speak for them. They were brilliant, and deadly, and utterly ruthless when it came time to accomplish their goals.  _

__ _ And that was where the similarities stopped, because what Coogan wanted was so vastly different than what Gabriel wanted that it made Jesse’s head hurt to try and keep them on the same scale.  _

__ _ Coogan was willing, if not perfectly overjoyed, to let others pay the price for him. Civilians, innocents, rivals, or even his own followers. He was perfectly at ease sacrificing his own men; Jesse’s final stand with Deadlock not included, he’d seen Coogan give others orders to hold a door or stand their ground so he could get better positioned. Coogan was smart enough to know when it was a lost cause, and he never asked more valuable members of the gang to take those risky positions. He played favorites like a fiddle, sawing back and forth fast enough to keep a tune and put on a show without caring if it was off-key and disharmonious. Coogan wanted a captive audience, a sacrifice of awe and blood.  _

__ _ Gabriel hated most of his subordinates, and he still treated them better than Coogan treated some of his supposed ‘favorites’. He only sent agents into such dire situations as a last resort, in times when it meant losing hostages or the rest of the team dying otherwise, and even then it was never something he was unwilling to do himself. The better class of Blackwatch agents respected him for that, at least grudgingly.  _

__ _ Jesse found it fascinating, even admirable, but it still raised some big questions that gnawed at the peace of mind he was starting to build. Whatever it was Gabriel wanted was big, too big him to get a clear picture just by watching.  _

 

__ _ “I don’t get it, Boss,” he admitted one day after a rough training session.  _

__ _ “Don’t get what?” Gabriel grunted, smearing med-kit ointment over a developing bruise on his side.  _

__ _ “Why’re you down here with the rest of us?” It was obviously a metaphorical question; Jesse had waited until the rest of the training team drifted off, leaving him alone with Gabriel.  _

__ _ “Better water pressure in the showers.”  _

__ _ “You know what I mean.” Gabriel just grunted, and Jesse’s eyes slipped half-closed, dark and watchful. “You’re a war hero. Who’d you piss off that you got shafted into black-ops, and why didn’t you tell them to shove it where the sun don’t shine and retire?”  _

__ _ “Suits in command of soldiers never really know what to do when the worst part of the war is over.”  _

__ _ “So you stayed to what, show them?”  _

__ _ Gabriel straightened up and took his time looking around the locker room. He grabbed his shirt and motioned for Jesse to follow him before heading out of the building entirely.  _

__ _ They walked in silence for a while, the stalking shadow and the waiting wolf, out to where they could see the base below them and the moon and stars above. Jesse instantly seemed to relax in the open air, shedding some of his sharpness.  _

__ _ “This is mine,” said Gabriel, staring down with fierce pride and possessiveness. “I bled and killed for it, and that makes it mine. Everyone I love left breathing in the world is part of it, and that makes it mine too. And -- this is important, Firecracker -- somewhere in the heart of all this mess of bureaucracy and backstabbing, there’s an idea I believe in. If I go, I gotta let go of that idea. I’m not getting chased away by a little mud and blood.”  _

__ _ Jesse laced his fingers behind his head and stared up at the sky.  _

__ _ “An idea, huh? And what’s that?”  _

__ _ Gabriel breathed out, slow and deep.  _

__ _ “Hearing mine won’t help you find yours.”  _

__ _ Jesse chewed his lip.  _

__ _ “I reckon I’d still like to hear it, Boss.”  _

__ _ Gabriel chuckled and fell silent again. His eyes rolled over the base, across the landscape, and finally settled on Jesse.  _

__ _ “This world’s a piece of shit, and it’s stuffed full of even more shit, but… maybe it won’t always be. For that to happen, is going to need someone to fight for it. It's going to need the biggest bastard who can give a damn. There's a lot of shit to shovel, after all. ”  _

__ _ Jesse said nothing just then. The moon and stars crawled from one horizon to the other.  _

__ _ Eventually, they made their way back to the base. Jesse paused at the door, face inscrutable.  _

__ _ “That was real damn cheesy, Boss.” He said.  _

__ _ “There’s a reason I don’t say it around here.”  _

__ _ “Not just because you don’t know who’s listening?”  _

__ _ “I’ve got a reputation to protect, Firecracker. Anyone ever hears you breathe a word about it, you’ll be running laps until you’re thirty.”  _

__ _ “Gotcha, Boss.” Jesse started to leave, then hesitated. “You really got people you love here, Boss?”  _

__ _ Gabriel threw his beanie at him.  _

 

 

* * *

 

**NOW:**

* * *

 

 

Talon’s interest in the armor of the fallen Crusader Balderich hits a sore spot for Reinhardt, who mutters and paces and occasionally shouts curses in English and German at enemies he can’t reach. Overwatch doesn’t, as an overall organization, have a reason to beat Talon to the prize beyond the gut instinct to keep them from getting anything they want, but McCree and Pharah only take about two seconds to decide that  _ someone _ is going after it. They end up in a brief but intense “discussion” on who gets to look after Reinhardt and who goes to Oasis to investigate some threats the University recently received. Pharah ends up with Oasis primarily because she speaks fluent Arabic and Jesse’s marginally better at German, and not at all because she lost the third round of Rock-Paper-Scissors.

“Athena,” Jesse calls as he leaves the conference room. “Put out a call to roster: Walpurgisnacht. I want to see ’em suited up for emergency deployment in under an hour, if possible.”

Hanzo is going to have some choice words and arch looks for him, at least until he explains. They had plans to go down to town for dinner, but of all the team members, he’ll be the most understanding about honoring the memory of the dead. 

“Message delivered,” Athena confirms. “Four acknowledgements.”

“Who’s missing?”

“Reinhardt is not responding. I believe he is distracted.”

“Well, ping him again at 200% volume. He sure as hell ain’t gonna wanna miss his own damn party.”

A brief pause, and then Athena replied with a decidedly smug, “Message delivered. Acknowledged.”

Jesse shakes his head and wonders where the AI got her sense of humor. 

“Thanks, Athena. You’re a doll.”

 

It takes the team a little more than half an hour to assemble. Reinhardt and Mercy have battle suits to put on and adjust. Jack’s ready in under ten minutes, which is helpful because Gabriel has to be dragged away from his coffee, an endeavor just as dangerous as fueling the rocket on Reinhardt’s armor. Bickering with Jack wins out over caffeine for Reaper, even though he does glare over Jack’s shoulder while Jesse makes his excuses to Hanzo. 

“I see,” the archer muses. “I suppose we shall have to content ourselves to ruining Talon’s plans as they have ruined ours.”

“Knew I could count on you.” Jesse drops a kiss to Hanzo’s cheek before straightening up, ready for business. “I hate to come between a man and what he feels he’s gotta do, but I don’t want to see Reinhardt rush in with his head full of the wrong kind of thoughts, neither.”

Hanzo gives him a thin, sharp smile. 

“And so you call nearly the entirety of ShadowWatch to watch his back.”

Jesse fidgets, but only a little. 

“It’s a lot of back to watch.”

“And it has nothing to do with your concern that Reaper will be running into known Talon forces for the first time since his defection?”

“Well, it does  _ now. _ ” McCree frowns, mentally reviewing missions. “Shit.”

“We will bring them all home, beloved.” Hanzo assures him.

Reinhardt strides in, armor on sans helmet, with Mercy directly behind him. 

“What’s with all this standing around?” He rumbles. 

“Just waiting on you, big guy. I’ll go over the full plan en route. Short version? We’re getting Balderich for you.”

Reinhardt’s face is an open book with big, colorful pictures and only three words per page. Even so, Jesse doesn’t get a chance to read it before he’s scooped up in a back-cracking embrace. 

“Thank you!” Reinhardt roars. “My master did not deserve to have his legacy befouled by the likes of Talon. They have ruined too much already.”

Gabriel tenses ever so slightly. Reinhardt notices, however, and moves to capture him in a similar embrace to the one Jesse just escaped. 

“It will be good to fight alongside you once again,” he says. “I am glad you return to the side of Justice.”

Gabriel ghosts his way free and re-materializes with his mask down, his posture guarded but not completely withdrawn. 

“Yeah, well.” He grumbles and stalks into the drop ship. “Don’t read too much into it.” 

 

The tension intensifies through the in-transit debrief. Soldier: 76 spends the entire time watching Reaper. Reaper spends the entire time staring at the map. Reinhardt makes a valiant attempt at paying attention, but keeps getting distracted by the way Reaper manages to visually compartmentalize every emotion. 

McCree sighs and talks a little louder. 

“Reinhardt, you and Mercy are going straight up the center.” He traces a path on the holographic map. “There’s no way to move you subtly, so we ain’t even gonna try. Hanzo and I will back you up; I’ll take ground, he’ll perch back a bit. Reaper, take right flank. Soldier, you got left. Don’t get ahead of us. We’ll be taking one of the siege engines to bust down the doors of the castle, and neither it nor Reinhardt are very fast. I don’t want them to come swarming us, so try and pick ‘em off one at a time, or lure them out to the side. Both of you can take care of your own healing; stay topped off, if at all possible, and drop back in range of the central procession for a boost. Any questions?” 

Mercy raises her hand. 

“Why is this arrangement called Walpurgisnacht?” 

McCree pulls a picture off the ship’s wall, one that depicts a long ago Halloween party with Angela wearing a witch’s costume. 

“‘Cause when the sun goes down, it’ll be the witch’s show, Angel Cake.” He puts the picture back. “There's a power to names. Mine have got a message, something to remind you what they’re meant to do, and in Walpurgisnacht, we gather ‘round the witch.” 

 

The natural reclamation of Eichenwald is both beautiful and terrifying in its own way. The insistent growth of grass and ivy over the abandoned buildings and lifeless Omnic remains give the city a strange stillness. The team’s very presence seems like a corrupting taint, too loud, too fast, too dark. 

They set up base in an old tavern that Reinhardt remembers and prepare to move out, wary of the defenses they saw on their way in. They have just a moment to stretch and ready themselves for battle, but it’s a moment that charges the blood in their veins. 

Reaper and McCree pace restlessly through the upper level, the former doing his best to keep his distance from everyone else, and the latter doing his best to keep him from succeeding. McCree pokes at the various objects left on tables, trinkets and knick-knacks long forgotten. His eyes fall on something that makes them light up with glee, and he snags Reaper’s coat to draw his attention. Reaper’s cold mercenary mask cracks a little as his hand closes around the object. 

“Hey, Jack.” He leans over the railing and tosses it to Soldier, who catches it one-handed. “Lifesavers.” 

Jack stares at the half-opened pack of American hard candy. The top one is red, dusty, and covered in fuzz like it had been in someone’s pocket for too long. Whatever his expression beneath his mask, he stays stock still for two seconds before he barks a laugh and hurls the candy back at Reaper’s head. Just like that, the tension shatters. Mercy, McCree, and Reinhardt burst out laughing. Hanzo stares at them all, annoyed to be missing out on the joke. 

“Oh, that takes me back!” Reinhardt chortles. 

“I cannot believe you two,” Mercy attempts to scold, but she can’t even keep a straight face. 

“Jack once nearly choked on a Lifesaver,” Jesse explains. Hanzo prepares to accept that minor irony, even if it doesn’t quite match the level of amusement around him, but Jack’s face goes as red as the candy. 

“Don’t say it like it’s my fault!” He protests furiously.

“An accident is no one’s fault--” Hanzo’s gracious dismissal falls short. 

“It wasn’t an accident!” Jack snaps. “Gabe gave me the candy and then waited until I had one in my mouth to take off his damn hoodie!” 

Hanzo glances back and forth between Jack and Gabriel. 

“Yes? And?”  

“He was wearing a shirt with “Choking Hazard” and a big damn arrow on it. You can guess what direction it was pointing.” 

Hanzo stares at Reaper in abject horror. Gabriel straightens up, and the material of his coat turns first to smoke, then to a printed T-shirt. 

“Hey, Jack.” He grins. Jack looks up reflexively, sees the T-shirt of his nightmares, and throws a discarded stein at him. Gabriel changes his shirt back to his coat and cackles as Jack swears. 

There’s no more tension at all, now. They share an open laugh at Jack’s expense, but even Jack laughs too. When they move out, it’s without hesitation. No doubt dogs their steps, no uncertainty shakes their hands. Reinhardt marches up the roads of Eichenwald, McCree and Hanzo launching a steady assault from behind his shield while Reaper and Soldier slip up behind their distracted enemies and eliminate them. 

More than once, a surprised Talon agent manages to gasp half a word in surprise, but Reaper’s shotguns always drown out the other half. 

McCree watches the mission play out textbook perfect and takes a moment to give a quick thanks to whatever powers look after Reinhardt. They burst through the castle doors and lay waste to the remnants of Talon’s resistance. Bullets and arrows rain down until finally Reinhardt stands before his lord on his throne, silent and reverent. 

After a moment, he steps forward and begins to carefully disassemble the armor while speaking to the dead man in his native tongue. His companionable tone nevertheless reverberates with deep respect, and both McCree and Reaper look away as they think of their own experiences as those who lead and those who follow. 

It is for this reason they see an obstinate, half-crushed Talon sniper push themselves up far enough to aim their rifle at the back of Reinhardt’s head. 

They both move before they’ve processed the situation into words. Reaper disintegrates and reappears on top of the determined sniper. McCree steps into the line of sight and mule-kicks the back of Reinhardt’s knee, dropping him. Reaper’s shotguns go off at the same time as the sniper’s rifle, and the bullet skims off the top of McCree’s hat and lodges in Balderich’s helmet. 

Reaper whips around, sees Jesse still standing, and then returns his attention to his prey, ripping at something that wisps like smoke before crushing it in his claws. 

Soldier wordlessly circuits the room, checking to make sure none of the other Talon agents are pretending to be dead. 

“My God,” Mercy whispers, helping Reinhardt back to his feet. “That could have been very bad indeed!” 

“My thanks, McCree!” The older man sighs in relief and beams at the cowboy. “I was caught up in thoughts of the past. I did not remember to watch the present!” 

“Not your fault, Tin Man.” McCree reassures him. “We all missed that one, but that’s what we’ve got the team for.” 

Hanzo scowls and examines the damage to McCree’s hat. He and Reaper exchange nearly identical looks that simultaneously blame themselves and each other for the near miss. McCree steps in between the both of them to break it up, shutting them down with the unassailable reminder that he’s fine. 

“Let’s finish this up,” he says, tone final, “and let’s go home.” 


	6. Chapter 6

**_THEN:_ **

* * *

 

 

_ Jesse got Peacekeeper shortly after the disastrous “test” of loyalty where he took out three criminals unarmed and against orders. Gabriel ran him ragged through a few missions first, and Jack ran him roughshod through a few more, but by then there was a fire inside him that refused to go out. It wasn’t very big, not yet, and it wasn’t very bright, but it was the start of a will to burn as hot and as high as the desert sun.  _

__ _ By the time those missions were done, he had a handful of new scars and a growing reputation as both a sharpshooter and Gabriel’s protege. The latter was getting him more attention than the former, and Gabriel knew it was time to do something about it. _

__ _ “I think it’s time you met Abuela,” he said, seemingly out of the blue.  _

__ _ “Why am I meeting your grandma?” Jesse’s brow scrunched up in confusion. Gabriel laughed.  _

__ _ “Not  _ **_mine_ ** _ , Firecracker. Abuela Muerte, the gunsmith.”  _

_ Jesse’s eyes widened comically.  _

__ _ “Y’all know Abuela Muerte?  _ **_The_ ** _ Abuela Muerte? The legendary gunsmith? Coogan tried to get one of her guns for years! She wouldn’t even give him the time of day!”  _

_ “Met her outside Dorado, back during the Crisis.” Gabriel nodded. “She designed my shotguns. Helped with Ana’s rifle, too, and a couple of others, some of which have outlived their bearers. And I’m going to ask her to make something for you.”  _

__ _ Jesse forever denied that he was anything but calm and charming in that moment, but Gabriel kept the memory of the young man’s excitement with him for years after.  _

 

__ _ Abuela Muerte lived near enough to the US-Mexico border that there were still shadows and scars from the ruinous wall visible from her front porch. Quite a lot could be seen from her front porch, really; it faced miles and miles of flat land and low hills. Consequently, nothing could be seen from her back porch, which butted up against the one mesa left standing.  _

__ _ Abuela herself was a tiny woman who looked skinny enough that she might snap in two if Gabriel sneezed on her, but she was pure sinew and steel at the core.  _

__ _ “Ay, what an ordeal to have children who never keep in touch.” She sighed with a look of such absolute maternal disappointment that Jesse instinctively whipped off his hat, smoothed down his hair, and stood up straighter.  _

__ _ Gabriel rolled his eyes and held out his shotguns.  _

__ _ “The Hellfire twins have been very well behaved,” he chuckled. “For them, anyway.”  _

__ _ Abuela tsked.  _

__ _ “They are naughty boys. So noisy! Such mess! You bring my boys to me; I will put them in line.”  _

__ _ “Actually, Abuela, I brought you someone else.” Gabriel elbowed Jesse, who tried to tip the hat he just took off.  _

__ _ “Ma’am. Pleasure to meet you. I’m a big fan of yours.” Abuela raised an eyebrow, and he cringed. “I mean. Your work. You make very elegant guns, ma’am.”  _

_ Abuela grabbed his chin and peered at his face like she was examining a horse.  _

__ _ “What is this you brought me, Geoffrey?” She demanded. “A boy scout?”  _

__ _ Gabriel snorted and didn’t bother to correct her about his name. _

__ _ “This is Jesse McCree. Swiped him from the Deadlocks.”  _

__ _ “Deadlocks! Ha!” She sneered. “Take the whole lot of them together, still not worth the lead of a single bullet!”  _

__ _ Jesse’s cheeks burned. His heart clenched. He’d heard it all before, and he knew he’d hear it all again. But for some reason, instead of growing numb to it, the repeated sentiments battered at him, and made the kindling fire in his soul burn desperate and painful.  _

__ _ Gabriel dropped his hand to Jesse’s shoulder and squeezed.  _

__ _ “This one’s got potential,” he said. “In fact, I’m willing to bet he’s worth one of your sons.”  _

__ _ Jesse turned, confused, between Abuela and Gabriel. _

__ _ “Sons?”  _

__ _ “Her guns are her children.”  _

__ _ “Ungrateful sons, all of them the same.” She sighed. “They only return to me when they need fixing. One day, I will make a daughter, and she will be so good that she never needs come home. Her, I will see to good hands.” She grabbed Jesse’s hands and turned them over, poking at his palms and the callouses on his fingers.  _

__ _ “Abuela, you should see him shoot.” Gabriel said.  _

__ _ “Do I tell you how to save the world, Gregory?” She replied archly.  _

__ _ “Every time I see you, yes.”  _

__ _ “Hmph. Well, if you did it the way I said, perhaps you wouldn’t still need the twins. Very well. Come downstairs, Joel. We’ll see what you can do.”  _

__ _ Jesse followed Gabriel’s lead and didn’t correct her about his name, but he couldn’t help the confusion from reaching his face. Abuela’s little cottage looked, at least from the outside, to be a single story.  _

__

__ _ She led them inside and through a plain wooden door that opened to a sleek metal hall. The rustic charms of the cabin gave way to a vault-like structure, modern and mechanical, with a large workroom and an even larger test range. Jesse estimated the rooms cut deep into the stone of the mesa.  _

__ _ Abuela brought him to the practice range and laid out an array of guns in front of him, various pistols of different calibers and designs.  _

__ _ “Your hands tell me you like to show off,  _ vaquero _. Very well, show off for me.” She and Gabriel fell back to the observation room, and Jesse perused the weapons. There was no mistaking the quality; even the plainest of them had an artistry to their build. He picked one up. Turned it over and over in his hands. Tested the grip. Checked the safety, the ammo, the load.  _

__ _ In the observation room, Abuela and Gabriel had a brief conversation. She hit a button, and targets appeared throughout the range. Jesse took up stance and started firing.  _

__ _ He started off easy and worked his way into more complicated maneuvers. Sometimes Abuela Muerte called out instructions: which targets to hit, which to leave, which gun to use. He followed her orders to the letter, a feat that left Gabriel grumbling jealously.  _

__ _ By the end of her test, Jesse was exhausted, sweating, and aching from the exertion.  _

__ _ “He’s not half-bad.” Abuela mused. “Still rough, but I see why you stole him.”  _

__ _ “Saved the best for last,” Gabriel smirked. Jesse sagged slightly as six more targets came up.  _

__ _ “All at once, Boss?”  _

__ _ “All at once. No matter what, Firecracker.” The command seemed odd at first, but the day was odd enough that he didn’t think to question it. He raised the gun and let time slow and the world fade around him.  _

__ _ He stared.  _

__ _ Found his targets.  _

__ _ And then Abuela stepped out of the observation booth and walked onto the range.  _

__ _ He almost backed down, but the old woman stared calmly back, daring him to shoot.  _

__ _ Jesse kept his focus on his targets; all six of them exploded in a second as he fanned the hammer. Abuela Muerte stood unfazed amidst the shattered pieces, her face unreadable.  _

__ _ “No matter what, Boss?” Jesse turned to glare at Gabriel, who startled him by coming out smiling.  _

__ _ “I think you made an impression.”  _

__ _ “You think?!”  _

__ _ Abuela Muerte walked up to Jesse and dragged his face down so she could look him in the eyes.  _

__ _ “What is it you want, Joel?” She asked, brows knitting together. “Power? Pleasure? Glory?”  _

__ _ He fought to keep his expression neutral as her words sunk into his heart like claws.  _

__ _ “At the moment, ma’am, I’d settle for a smoke and maybe a glass of water, if it’s not too much to ask.”  _

__ _ “Ha!” She laughed, but did not let go. She searched his eyes the way priests searched holy texts for answers. “Ah. I see.” Abuela Muerte let him go. “Two months.” _

__ _ “That long?” Gabriel raised an eyebrow.  _

__ _ “For what he wants? Two months is fast. You are lucky I do not take six. I know how you boys like to play.”  _

__ _ “Thank you, Abuela Muerte.” Gabriel grins.  _

__ _ “Gracias, Abuela Muerte,” Jesse adds. The old woman sniffs and turns a tired gaze on him.  _

__ _ “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Joel.”  _

 

* * *

 

**NOW:**

* * *

 

 

Jesse brings Hanzo with him to the US-Mexican border under the pretense of needing backup, although everyone and Fareeha’s mother knows it’s really for a chance for them to be alone. Command eats Jesse’s time the way Winston eats peanut butter: with bursts of single-minded focus and a terrible mess in the aftermath. Hanzo keeps his complaints limited to superficial things like Jesse’s taste in alcohol, but the strain is visible to anyone with eyes, and Jack’s starting to hover like a mother hen. Peacekeeper needing a checkup is just the kind of excuse to get them away for a weekend. 

 

“Now, don’t be fussed if Abuela’s a little… uh… brusque with you.” Jesse warns as they walk up the rickety wooden porch. “She’s a pepper, that one.” 

“I have heard of her before,” Hanzo reassures him. “The clan simply did not deem it worthwhile to pursue a foreign gunsmith for the sake of a single weapon.” 

Jesse makes a show of giving Peacekeeper an affectionate pat. 

“Don’t listen to him,” he says. “I’ll bet he went all over Hell and Tarnation for Storm Bow.” 

“I doubt it, since we passed both of those towns on the way here,” Hanzo mutters. 

The door swings open, and Abuela Muerte glowers up at them. 

 

There’s little more that time can do to a woman of a certain age and disposition, and in the case of Abuela Muerte, it decided not to bother trying. Her dark, leathery skin cannot hold any more wrinkles, nor her hair turn any more white. She wears spectacles, but her teeth are still good, and they flash between her thin lips as she pulls a face at the two men on her doorstep. 

“Joel,” she grunts. “Come to bring my ungrateful son home again?” 

Like Gabriel so many years ago, Jesse lets her misnaming roll off his back, and Hanzo follows his lead. 

“He needs to be set straight, ma’am.” McCree tips his hat. 

“You haven’t been letting the Swedish boy play with him, have you?” 

Hanzo chokes on a surprised laugh to hear Torbjörn addressed so dismissively. McCree just smiles. 

“No, ma’am. I do all the maintenance myself, just like you told me to. Just figured he ought to do his due diligence and come see his maker.” 

Abuela nods and turns her attention on Hanzo. 

“And who is this? A new recruit? Someone else in need of a gun?” 

Hanzo bows respectfully.

“This is Hanzo,” McCree says before Hanzo can properly introduce himself. “And yes, he’s one of us, but no, he doesn’t need a gun.” 

Abuela scowls. 

“Sword and shuriken, like your other friend?” 

Hanzo twitches at the mention of Genji. 

“Archer,” he says, trying to cover his discomfort. “And I have my own bow. I am here for him.” He gestures to Jesse, and Abuela nods, pacified. 

“Never got much into bows.” She muses. “Always preferred a little fire in my boys.” 

“Hanzo’s got plenty of fire, I promise.” Jesse grins. Hanzo elbows him for the innuendo, but Abuela just nods again and leads them down to the workroom. Hanzo hides his surprise at the change in decor better than Jesse did his first time. Jesse sneaks his hand around Hanzo’s, though, and can feel his pulse pound with excitement. 

They sit and watch while Abuela takes Peacekeeper apart and inspects each piece with an expert eye. She sets some pieces to fabricate, adds a few others to upgrade, and then ushers them back out to the front porch to wait. 

Jesse tells her stories of some of the things he’s done in the years since he last saw her, most of them true, and only masking some of the painful, personal parts. All of the stories feature Peacekeeper, and Hanzo can’t help but see the pride in the old woman’s face. 

“He’s become such a good boy,” Abuela says once Jesse’s excused himself to the restroom. 

“Peacekeeper?” Hanzo blinks, still trying to adjust to her address of her creations. 

“Him, too.” She glances back towards the house. “He came back, after the Fall. It was a bad time. I thought I might have to give him a different gun if the fire in him went out. Peacekeeper fires because someone must fight the wicked, not because he seeks to kill.” 

Hanzo thinks back to the early days of the Recall, to the way McCree carried himself like a coiled snake, and to the open, empty smile the man used to wear to hide the storms inside him. He thinks of hesitant hands and cautious kisses, of eyes that search for him like a light in the dark, and of a smile that returns like the rising sun. He thinks of names, and the power in them, and the stories they tell.

“It did not go out,” he says. “He still burns.” 

“Be careful not to let him burn himself out.” She stares at the horizon, and even with his sharp vision Hanzo cannot see what keeps her attention. 

McCree comes back, and the conversation resumes as lively as ever. Hanzo entwines his hand with Jesse’s and takes comfort in the warmth. 

 

Eventually Abuela takes them back inside and lets them watch her reassemble Peacekeeper with the new parts. Jesse takes it to the practice range, fires off a few rounds, and praises the gun and gunsmith resoundingly. There is nothing but honest sincerity in his voice, which may be why Abuela Muerte smiles back at him. 

“One more thing, Joel,” she says. “Show me what you did the day you first came to me.” 

“What, the combat roll?” Jesse scratches the back of his head. 

“All at once,” she reminds him. His face turns doubtful. 

“You ain’t gonna walk out in the middle of it again, are you?” 

She shakes her head. 

“Nor send Hanzo out, neither?” 

Again, she shakes her head. 

“Well, all right.” 

Abuela fiddles with a dial and hits a button. Targets spring up. 

McCree calls down the desert sun and opens his Deadeye, staring until he can see death and destruction bearing down, until he can see the place to hit to make it stop. All of the targets explode as he fans the hammer. He barely feels as if he’s pulled the trigger. 

Abuela’s mouth thins and curves down as she examines the results. 

“ _ Uno, dos, tres, quatro, cinco, seis…” _ she murmurs under her breath.  _ “Siete, ocho, nueve.”  _

“Beg pardon?” 

“I think,” says Abuela Muerte, “I have one more thing for you. And then I think you should go.” 

Hanzo and Jesse exchange confused, concerned looks, but she ducks into her workroom again and comes out with a hard drive. She folds it into McCree’s hand, making sure he holds it as gently as glass. 

“Abuela?” he asks. 

“You are the only one to come back, you know.” She says. “The others, I know they are not as dead as they pretend to be. But you are the one who came back, and I see you have the skills to take her safely where she will need to be.” 

“Her?” McCree looks down at the drive. “You don’t mean--” 

“My only daughter.” Abuela nods. “See what that Swedish boy makes of her. The time is right. I entrust her to you, Joel.” 

“Abuela--” 

“Go, go. I am expecting company soon. I must clean house.” 

“Abuela!” McCree’s brow furrows, but the old woman is strong enough to shoo two men all the way to the front porch. 

“You take care of her for me.” She reminds them. “See to it you don’t burn yourself.” 

The door shuts in their faces. 

 

They find their way back to town, wandering in seemingly random patterns as they scope out the area around the hotel while trying to make sense of their abrupt dismissal. 

The ‘daughter’ is easy enough to explain that McCree did so on the return trip, but that Abuela would hand over a drive rather than an assembled gun makes no sense. 

“Overwatch fought tooth and nail for the schematics of her guns in the past.” Jesse tells Hanzo. “Torbjörn tried to reverse engineer one once, and she’s had it out for him ever since.” 

Hanzo hums contemplatively. 

“Why would she give you plans when he is your only way of artificing them?” 

“Hell if I know,” Jesse sighs. “And for the legendary ‘daughter’, too. I suppose we ought to head--” 

McCree was in black-ops and on his own long enough that his first reaction to shock is no longer to freeze up, at least not while he’s on the job. He keeps walking, but his voice fails, and the openness of his face shutters under a bulletproof glass window. Hanzo tenses but follows as McCree makes a sharp, subtle turn and doubles back. His eyes skim the crowd with increasing tension. 

“Target?” Hanzo asks softly, fingers wrapped around McCree’s wrist. 

“Older white male, ash-blond, sunglasses and blue shirt.” McCree mutters. “Nose been broken before. Looks like he uses a belt sander as a razor.” 

“An old enemy?” Hanzo scans the crowd as well, catching glimpses of grey and blue slipping farther and farther away, too quickly to follow subtly. 

“The oldest,” McCree growls. “Coogan.” 


	7. Chapter 7

**_THEN:_ **

* * *

 

 

_ McCree didn’t know it, but Gabriel met Coogan once, years ago. He was Reaper at the time, and Talon paid him to escort one of their lieutenants to meet a man about a supply of guns, explosives and other nasty surprises.  _

__ _ He had not been impressed.  _

__ _ It took a while to identify the gunrunner as the shifty ex-Deadlock leader who left Jesse to face Overwatch by himself. There were no pictures from the Deadlock days, only what descriptions Jesse and other prisoners had given. The man in front of him was just one like many others, rangy and wily enough to survive a bad trade but not quite clever enough to climb all the way to the top.  _

__ _ Reaper finally made the connection as he listened to the man talk and saw the effect his words had on his underlings: they followed him, hypnotized by fear rather than admiration or dedication. They were caught up in his game, addicted to the terror and the high that came with surviving it. Coogan obviously regarded his people as pieces to be leveraged, no more than pawns to be sacrificed.  _

__ _ In that regard, Coogan was a fool.  _

__ _ Great leaders remembered that every pawn held the promise of promotion. Jesse was the prime example of what happened when one of them got all the way across the board.  _

 

__ _ Coogan and the Talon lieutenant bargained casually, giving Reaper time to glower at the man behind the impassivity of his mask. Hate seethed in him with every callous word the gunrunner threw out.  _

**** **_Here was the man who almost wasted Jesse McCree._ **

__ _ A lifetime ago, Jesse confided in Gabriel how he’d been left behind. How he’d made a choice in that terrible moment not to try and kill everything in front of him. Coogan bragged about doing just that to the Talon lieutenant, off-handed, as if it was only natural. As if it didn’t bear thinking about. Like it wasn’t the kind of choice that got Jesse a set of handcuffs instead of a bullet in the brain.  _

__ _ If Jesse had been even the slightest bit more impressionable - if, at the age of sixteen, he’d seen Coogan as something to be emulated - if he hadn’t waited a year and followed Gabriel instead…  _

__ _ Reaper couldn’t afford to think of how things could have turned out differently. He couldn’t picture McCree standing at Coogan’s side, cold, hungry, hard as diamonds, and utterly ruined as a human being. He couldn’t be glad that the cowboy was somewhere out there in the wider world, hunting his own brand of justice, outrunning the law. That was Gabriel’s life, and it was over.  _

__ _ So he stared at Coogan in contempt and buried his gratefulness in the ashes.  _

 

__ _ “Your bodyguard…” Coogan asked warily, finally catching on to Reaper’s attention. “He… okay?”  _

__ _ “Reaper is a valuable associate,” the lieutenant said crisply. “You would do well to remember his reputation.”  _

__ _ Coogan nodded slowly and dragged his attention back to the deal, which eventually fell through; the gunrunner did not have the kind of firepower Talon wanted. Reaper left with a smirk under his mask at the man’s failure: failure in business, failure to succeed, failure to ruin McCree. Even if Gabriel didn’t have his Firecracker at his back, at least Coogan didn’t have him, either.  _

 

__ _ If he had known what was to come, he would have shot the man dead in his tracks.  _

__ _ If he had only known.  _

 

* * *

 

**NOW:**

* * *

 

 

Jesse and Hanzo return to their hotel under a cloud of tension and foreboding. Despite hours of their best efforts, they could not find the man Jesse swore he saw, and his mood turns darker when the evening news brings in reports of a fire outside of town. 

They sit in silent horror as the feed shows a cloud of smoke over the mesa, the bright blaze of the fire visible even from a distance, far too big for the little house they just saw. 

“What do you think happened?” Hanzo asks to prompt Jesse into speaking. He has his own suspicions, but they’re colored by his background, and this is McCree’s territory, not his. 

“Abuela said she was expecting company. She must’ve been expecting trouble.”

“She does business with many unsavory sorts.” Hanzo makes a face. “ _ Did. _ She would have had precautions.” 

“Fat lot of good they did her.” Jesse breathes in slow, his fingers clawing at the leather of his chaps. “We could have helped.” 

Hanzo watches as the fire pops and swells, possibly from something in the hidden workroom. 

“Perhaps.” 

“I am sick to death of people sending me away when they think there’s going to be trouble.” 

“She spoke fondly of you. Did you know her well?” 

“I’ve known her a while, but not well,” he admits. “Not really. Not like Ana. Not like Boss.” 

Hanzo leans against Jesse’s shoulder and feels the warmth of the man like a bonfire. Jesse’s communicator blinks and beeps a priority code. He exhales and reaches for it, only to freeze as he sees the display:

_ UNKNOWN SENDER: Where were u? _

“We got ourselves an uninvited guest on our lines,” he growls, clearing out the message. Hanzo scowls. 

“How?” 

“Don’t rightly know, but that’s awfully convenient timing, don’t you think?” 

The comm beeps again, showing a message with an attachment.

__ _ UNKNOWN SENDER: You won't believe what I just heard. _

“And they write like bad clickbait, too.” 

_ UNKNOWN SENDER: I know what happened to Abuela Muerte. _

McCree types back before he can stop himself:  _ If you hurt her, I will end you. _

__ _ UNKNOWN SENDER: Relax, vaquero. I’m pissed, too, but I’m not in the country.  _

__ McCree types:  _ How do you know about it, then? _

_ UNKNOWN SENDER _ suddenly rewrites itself on his screen, spelling out a different username one character at a time: S-O-M-B-R-A. 

“Shit, fuck, damn.” He hisses. Hanzo’s eyes narrow. 

“Isn’t that the hacker behind the Lumerico scandal?” 

“Mercenary hacker, yeah, from what I gather. Never much crossed paths with hackers in the past; I was more into the hands-on stuff. Heaven help us if she’s on our comms. Winston’s going to have to scrub Athena down to her circuit boards. Crap.”

_ SOMBRA: C’mon, Joel. Just help me make sense of what I'm seeing. Gabe got me in touch with her, but all this happened before I could actually get there.  _

A file attachment pops up. McCree pauses; there’s a short list of people who know Reaper’s true identity, and an even shorter list of people who dare to call him “Gabe”. At least now he knows how his bounty and record got cleared. His finger hovers over the holographic command to open the file anyway. If half of what he’s heard of Sombra is true, there’s very little danger left in opening it now that she’s already hacked into the comms. 

He opens it. 

 

It shows security feeds from Abuela Muerte’s house: two angles of the porch, one of the interior of the house, and one each from the workroom and range. There are timestamps on each camera, and they date to just before McCree and Hanzo showed up. He watches as the feed speeds through their visit; Hanzo, the clever bastard, managed to keep most of his face off camera the entire time, but Jesse and his broad movements are an easy read. There’s a little hitch as Abuela hands him the drive, just a split second where it lingers on that image, before it rolls through their departure and eventually slows to real time. 

Abuela Muerte walks down to the range and comes back to her porch carrying twin pistols. She sits in her rocking chair and stares across the hills until she finally pulls both guns and fires at a group of men who drive up in armored cars. The men outwait her assault, then swarm the porch as she reloads. She takes out a few, but whoever planned the assault accounted for ‘acceptable losses’, and there are more of them than she has bullets. 

McCree’s boiling blood freezes as he sees Coogan walk up to the old woman. Sombra didn't include the audio track, but McCree doesn’t need it. He’s heard the man’s speeches before, and his intentions are written clearly in the set of his jaw, the coldness of his eyes, and the curve of his hands as he gestures. 

Abuela Muerte only laughs at his request and spits in his face. 

Coogan shoots her in the gut. His minions drop her, and the lot of them stomp into her house. The screen flips back and forth between the cameras. Coogan and his men breach the workroom, take all the weapons from the practice range, and leave an unpleasant looking device behind. On the porch, Abuela Muerte lays against the railing and painstakingly reloads her gun. 

She catches the first two of Coogan’s men as they come out of the door, and when Coogan follows, she blows off part of his ear before he puts another bullet in her head.

Coogan pries the pistols from Abuela’s hands. He drives off. The device in the workroom explodes. The camera feed dies. 

 

McCree sits silent, eyes glued to the display. Hanzo’s grip around him tightens. Another message pops up. 

__ _ SOMBRA: Looks like you left just a little too early.  _

The joints on McCree’s left arm creak as the metal clenches into a tighter fist. 

_ SOMBRA: C’mon, vaquero. You wanna team up? My eyes, your arm?  _

 

Hanzo presses his forehead to McCree’s back. McCree types slowly, carefully. 

_ I’ll handle this myself. _

Then he powers off his comm, pries open the back, and removes the battery and reserve battery. Hanzo sweeps the room for bugs and McCree extracts the emergency scrambler hidden behind the icon on his hat. It will only buy them five minutes, but that should be more than enough time to make a plan. 

Hanzo’s sweep comes up clean, but McCree activates the scrambler just in case.  

“I do not like this,” Hanzo says. 

“Me neither. Nothing about this sits well with me, and what I’m about to ask is gonna sit worse with you.” 

Hanzo grips Jesse’s hands and looks him straight in the eyes. 

“You are going to ask anyway.” 

“I want you to take Abuela’s drive to Torbjörn and get him to take a look at it, off the server.” 

“Without you.” 

“I’m gonna do some recon. This bastard who killed Abuela Muerte, I know him. He’s not good people, and he shouldn’t be running free.” 

“You want to do reconnaissance alone.” 

“I blend in here better than pretty much anywhere else, darlin’. This is my backyard, my home turf. Someone’s gotta let Winston know to scrub Athena, and that kind of message has to be delivered the old fashioned way so Sombra doesn’t know to dig her heels in. Gotta be soon, ‘cause if she’s in the comms, the whole team is compromised.” 

“You are right. It does not sit well with me.” 

“But you’ll do it?” 

“If I refused to leave you, would you come with me?” 

They lose half a minute in desperate, wordless grasping, weighed down by the crossways of want and need. 

“Will you do it?” Jesse asks again. 

Hanzo’s face creases in grief, and he bows his head, then nods. 

Jesse exhales, and the archer fixes him with a stare that could put an arrow through his head from a block away. 

“I am not  _ leaving, _ ” he stresses, “but I will run this errand for you and return as quickly as I am able.” 

“I know, Heart o’ My Heart. I’m much obliged.” Jesse kisses him, quick and chaste. Hanzo grabs him by the shirt and drags him closer. 

“You are aware this “Sombra” character may be laying a trap? To try and get Abuela’s drive, or to catch you?” He growls into the hollow of Jesse’s throat. 

“Well aware,” Jesse murmurs back. “But I won’t have it, and if she tries to come after you for it, well, you’re better at shaking a tail.” 

Hanzo huffs and releases him. The scrambler’s timer runs down. There are no new messages from Sombra when Jesse reactivates his comm, but he quarantines it anyway, disconnecting it from the network except for manual synchs. It won’t help the overall system, but it should keep her from pinging him whenever she feels like it, and he’ll still have it in case of emergency. 

They split ways: Hanzo to take the ship back to the Watchpoint, McCree to disappear into the city, and even though they’ve undertaken separate missions before, this time it feels like there’s a rope around their hearts that pull tighter with every mile between them. 

Hanzo goes home. 

McCree pulls out his razor and goes to work. 


	8. Chapter 8

**NOW:**

* * *

 

 

Gabriel gets the message through the same channel he used when he still freelanced for Talon. Messages, rather. Emphasis on the plural. It pings several times with increasingly shorter delays between each one. He ignores it to capture Jack’s rook. 

“Your phone’s ringing,” Jack points out. 

Gabriel glances down at the screen.

 

__ _ PURPLE BRAT: Gabe. _

__ _ PURPLE BRAT: Gabe. _

__ _ PURPLE BRAT: Gabe. _

__ _ PURPLE BRAT: Gabe. _

__ _ PURPLE BRAT: Gabe. _

 

“Unimportant,” he grunts. Jack moves his remaining bishop. Gabriel moves a pawn on the poorly guarded side of the board. His phone pings again. 

_ PURPLE BRAT: Seriously, Gabe, this is important.  _

“Someone’s popular today,” says Jack, more than a little archly. 

“What’s the matter, don’t like sharing?” Gabriel grins. Jack grumbles incoherently and carelessly moves his knight. Gabriel moves his pawn again. “Hey, Jack. Promotion.” The pawn becomes a queen. 

_ PURPLE BRAT: Abuela Muerte’s dead, Gabe. Some asshole stormed her place, grabbed all her stuff, and torched her house.  _

Gabriel freezes. His face clouds over as the buried titanic wrath boils to the surface. He picks up the phone and dials. 

“ **Who** .” 

“Some mid-boss-level asshat. I’ve never seen him before, but he showed up just after that guy whose record you had me scrub.” Sombra makes an annoyed huff. “Who the hell is this Joel-or-Jesse guy, anyway, and how is he involved?” 

“Is he all right?” Gabriel’s voice drops into Reaper’s murderous growl. 

“Who,  _ el vaquero _ ? Yeah, he’s fine, he left before  _ Señor  _ Trigger Happy showed up.” She hisses. “Gabe, you said you were going to help me get one of her guns, and now she’s dead!” 

“I said I was going to give you her contact info; you had to convince her yourself.” 

“It’s not like I can do that  _ now _ .” 

“Not my fault.” He pauses; Sombra is a dangerous friend, but an even more unpredictable enemy. “What do you want instead?” 

“For now? I’ll just call it a favor.” 

Gabriel winces. “I reserve the right of moral refusal.” 

She outright laughs at him, which is fair; she knows better than most that he deserves that, but it still stings for reasons he doesn’t care to look too deeply into. 

“Oh, Gabe, for a joke like that? I’ll let you have it. One favor, for now, with the right of moral refusal. Or…” 

“Or?” 

“You could tell me what’s so important about  _ el vaquero _ , who had a criminal record as long as my arm and literally no other records. Seriously, it’s like someone scrubbed it ages ago, and all he’s had since then has just been attached to his first bounty.” 

“No deal.” Gabriel remembers the ordeal of bribing, bullying, and in one case actually burning hard copies that was his original purge of McCree's accessible history. It wasn't a courtesy he extended to all his Blackwatch subordinates, only the ones who lasted long enough to get into the deeper end of shit, the ones he trusted not to misuse the opportunity. So, really, he only ever did it for McCree. 

“Not even juvie records! C’mon, Gabe, there’s literally  _ one _ picture of this guy in the world, and they’ve been using it on everything.” 

“Goodbye, Sombra.” 

He hangs up. There are certainly more pictures of Jesse McCree in the world, but one has to know what to look for, and where, and who to kill to get their hands on them. 

His phone pings one more time. 

__ _ PURPLE BRAT: And change my contact name, or I’ll do it for you! _

Gabriel puts down the phone and looks up at Jack. 

“Abuela Muerte’s dead.” 

“Jesse’s down there to see her.” 

“Hit came just after he left.” 

“Bad timing. We looking into it?” 

“Not my call, Jackie.” 

“... not mine, either. Huh.” 

“Firecracker will call if he needs us.” Gabriel looks down at the board. Jack’s black pieces are predominantly on one side. Most of Gabriel’s white pieces are in terrible attrition with them, but his one promoted queen is on the other side, all by herself. 

“Will he?” Jack’s voice goes sharp and strained. 

“After all that flak he gave us about never calling?” Gabriel growls. “He better.” 

Jack and Gabriel look at each other, and then, as one, back down at the board. 

“Shit.” 

 

* * *

 

**ALSO NOW:**

* * *

 

 

Hanzo arrives at the Watchpoint and immediately waylays Winston. 

“How was your trip--” Winston gets out before Hanzo drags him into a blind spot and hands him a handwritten note. 

_ The comms are compromised,  _ it reads.  _ Scrub everything. Sombra was on the line.  _

Winston fumbles with his glasses, then with the note. He looks at Hanzo, who is on the short list for People Least Likely To Pull A Prank. He nods, and then goes scrambling for the computer. 

Hanzo turns on his heel and heads for Torbjörn’s workshop. 

 

He explains the situation to the engineer, who pulls off his welding mask in memoriam the way some men remove their hats. Torbjörn has a number of non-networked computers; his experience with Omnics and God Programs give him a healthy caution of network connectivity, so it’s easy for him to safely open Abuela Muerte’s drive. 

“Let’s see what the old girl was thinking,” he says. He frowns, skims, and then sighs. 

The first six pages of the file are done up to resemble the instruction manual of an IKEA flatpack. Simplified pictures indicate how pieces should fit together and the order of assembly. Hanzo can’t read the remaining thirty-odd pages, but Torbjörn can: everything else is in Swedish. Even the numbers are written out longhand. 

“Well, I can probably have it to you in about a week--” Hanzo must have some expression of significant distress on his face, because Torbjörn purses his lips. “Three days. You just focus on your boy, and I’ll get this done in three days, all right?” 

“You have my thanks.” Hanzo bows and leaves Torbjörn to decipher the plans. He briefly considers trying to fly back to Jesse’s side anyway, just to serve as backup. Travel lag topples him into bed instead, and he passes out before his head hits the pillow. He wakes up reaching for Jesse and feeling as empty as the space beside him. 

He eats perfunctorily. Growing tension knots his stomach, but he forces the food down. Things happen so suddenly in Overwatch, who knows when he’ll get a chance again. His preparation serves him well when Pharah hunts him down in the kitchen, grave faced and steel-eyed. 

“Are you field-ready?” She asks. Hanzo sets down his bowl with a frown. 

“I am preparing to return to collect McCree from reconnaissance in the U.S.” 

“He didn’t come back with you?” 

“Our visit took an… unpleasant turn. He is investigating the situation, but sent me back ahead.” 

“Anything to do with the compromised comms?” Pharah’s frown deepens as Hanzo nods. “Good thing I found you here, then.” 

“Why?” 

“I need a sniper to deal with a hostage situation in Japan.” 

Hanzo tenses further.

“Hanamura?” 

“No. Tokyo. It’s anti-omnic extremists again. I think they’re similar to the group McCree ran into in London.” 

“They are rather far from home.” 

Pharah sighs. 

“Hatred, like stupidity, seems to know no boundaries but the ones it decides to draw. An extremist has taken a group of school children hostage. He is protesting the “bot-biased curriculum” about the end of the Omnic Crisis.” She reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder. “I know you want to return to Jesse, but my mother is not yet back from Numbani, and we have no other sharpshooters to match your finesse. Can I ask this of you?” 

He has three thoughts which follow one right after another in the span of time it takes his heart to go from beat to beat. The first thought is for Jesse; his thoughts were on his beloved before Pharah came to him. The second thought is for the children; rising outrage for the young people threatened by their elders’ decisions. The third thought is that Jesse would want him to go. 

Hanzo stands up. 

“When Winston has fixed the comms, please have him send Jesse a message to tell him I have been delayed, but I will return to him as soon as possible.” 

Pharah smiles. 

“I will see to it personally.” 

 

He doesn’t get back until two days later. Though the mission was a perfect success, his unease only compounds without return word from Jesse, even after Pharah alerts him the comm lines should be clear. He intends to disembark just long enough to grab food and refuel the ship before heading back to America. Sleep is for the weak, or those without significant others who’ve gone incommunicado in potentially hostile territory. 

    Torbjörn catches him as he leaves the hangar. The engineer’s brows knit tightly above his frowning mouth as he holds up a sturdy black box about the same size as Peacekeeper’s carrying case.

“I thought you might be in a rush. She’s done. But… are you sure the old girl said this was her daughter?” He asks. Ice runs through Hanzo’s veins. 

“What is wrong?” 

“I’ve just never seen anyone but a Junker get any reliability out of something that shoots what are basically track spikes. She’s a sweet piece, palm-print safety lock, chamber of twelve, strong enough to go through most barriers, will probably have a decent rate of fire, but… I don’t really know who’s supposed to use her.” 

“She gave her to McCree’s keeping.” 

“Yes, well, he didn’t piss her off before she gave it to him, did he?”

“Not that I am aware.” 

“It’s just that there’s... quirks…” 

“Quirks?” 

“Not really sure how to tell you this, lad, but this gun… she’s twice the weight a gun this size ought to be, and the recoil on her is likely to shatter a human wrist. Unless he uses it with his left; the prosthetic is coded to match, too. Even then, there’s the chance of backfire. She’s likely to kill whoever fires her.” Torbjörn sighs. “Abuela Muerte named her daughter ‘Vengeance’. Are you sure she’s meant for McCree?” 

Hanzo’s heart sinks, cold and leaden as he takes the case. 

Abuela Muerte has made Jesse the custodian of her revenge. 

 

* * *

 

**MEANWHILE:**

* * *

 

 

It’s been a long time since the lone wolf was on the prowl. The instincts that keep the hunter alive are dull from complacency, but he sharpens them like his razor before he shaves his beard and dons the black and blue outfit he bought with Jack. His regular cowboy gear might not stand out too much in the area, but it also makes him look exactly like the picture that used to circulate through the news. He draws less of the wrong kind of attention in the sleek, semi-formal outfit, slipping in and out of the evening shadows. It’s not his preferred modus operandi, but it gives him an edge. 

If what Sombra showed him is true, if what he remembers is just the beginning, then he’ll need every edge he can get. His enemies don’t play fair, and to catch them, neither can he. 

It’s almost embarrassingly easy to get intel after he makes that decision. A few shady bars, a few friendly drinks, a few less-than-friendly words, and information flows towards him. He listens. Buys drinks. Smiles too wide and too sharp. Drags punks into back alleys. 

He spills blood. Breaks bones. Threatens worse, but doesn’t have to cross that line. His words cut deeper than the razor tucked into his breast pocket ever could.

“There’s a new gang out of the old Route 66 area,” they tell him. 

“Gun running, mostly. Some drugs. Some other stuff.” 

“They front a biker gang.” 

“Weird name. Dead-something. Dead Rock?” 

“Run by a guy named Coogan. Old school, big ideas.”

They tell him stories of bodies left behind, of the braggart’s air that the man shoulders, of the notches in his belt for his kills wrapping all the way around his waist. 

McCree isn’t impressed; he’s killed that many in a single Blackwatch mission. It wasn’t even one of the bad ones. Compared to everything and everyone he encountered in the ‘Watch, Coogan now seems uninspired and more lucky than skilled. McCree wonders why he ever thought the man was something to be feared. The world is so much bigger now, and he has walked in the footsteps of titans and forged ahead where even they could not go.

 

He makes his way farther north, towards Route 66. The desert welcomes him, red and gold during the day, blue and black at night, and he blends right into it. The Mystery Man keeps moving. The Lone Wolf keeps hunting. 

He doesn’t realize quite how far he’s gone until he’s in the Panorama Diner, holding a cup of coffee that tastes like boiled dirt. Time and space always get a little sketchy when he’s on his own. He checks his comm and synchronizes it to the network for the first time in -- oh, hell. Three days. Two messages from Sombra, dated back to that first day. One from Fareeha, on the second day, telling him the lines should be cleared, and that she had to borrow Hanzo for an emergency deployment. One from Hanzo the day after, as austere and impactful as its sender:  _ I miss you _ . 

McCree smiles behind his scarf and listens to the distant wail of a train approaching the stretch of tracks above the diner. The smile fades as his eyes alight on another group of patrons who sit close to the door and move increasingly restlessly. They have a look about them that makes his hands itch for Peacekeeper. The hunter considers dragging them out back for a bit of questioning. Their outfits remind him of the old Deadlock getup, and one of them keeps looking at his watch. Another jumps every time the waitress comes around to offer them refills. All in all, they scream “up to something” to him. Likely they won’t know much, but they might be a lead worth following. 

Still, instinct hisses in the back of his head, sending electric tension through his muscles. Something’s not right, something worse than a few bad intentions. His gaze catches on a remote in one man’s hands, and the way the woman next to him keeps her eyes firmly on the tracks outside the window. 

McCree maps the road and the canyon in his mind, the speed of a train and required braking time, and he swallows a curse as his calculations result in a relatively short timeframe. 

He flags down the waitress and gestures for her to lean in. 

“Ma’am,” he says, “I’m going to have to ask you to evacuate the building and take the customers with you.” 

She laughs a little, but he holds her gaze. In the shadows of his hat, his eyes are dark as a moonless night. She glances down and sees the gun on his hip. 

“We don’t keep enough cash to be worth robbing, Mr. Fancy Pants.” 

“I don’t intend to.” He hands her all the cash he’s carrying instead, hoping it will make up for what’s about to happen. “Those folks, on the other hand, don’t look like they’ll be too fussed if something happens to y'all during whatever it is they’re planning that involves a drone strike.” 

To her credit, the waitress just huffs. 

“God save us from outlaws and vigilantes,” she mutters. “Figures. They’ve been coming here for a week, and they don’t tip.” 

She stalks off and starts whispering to the few other patrons in the diner. It says a lot about the area that the atmosphere stays one of annoyance rather than fear. She gives McCree a glower before she disappears into the back, presumably to grab the cook and leave. She doesn’t return, so he eases the safety off his gun and stands up. 

He doesn’t make it three steps before the jumpy one reaches over and hits a button on the remote. Above, the bridge explodes. 

“Shit, are you trying to get us all killed?” Another one hisses. Flaming metal crashes to the pavement in front of the diner. 

“Sorry, sorry, but I thought it was time--” 

“I’ve got the fucking watch, you dumbass! Coogan’s going to have our heads if that drone wasn’t in the right place.” 

McCree draws his gun. 

“Reach for the sky,” he says. One of the the troublemakers facing him reaches for her gun instead, and he puts a bullet in her shoulder. “Next one’s between the eyes.” 

Her jumpy companion ignores his warning, and McCree makes good on his word. The remaining three freeze, staring at their dead comrade in horror. 

“There’s only one of me, but I got four bullets left, and there’s three of you. I think the question you’ve gotta ask yourselves is how lucky you’re feeling today?”

“Who the hell are you?” The wounded woman demands. 

“Just a shadow of the past, coming back to bring light to the future.” 

Somewhere above them, the train screeches to a halt. Judging by the echoes bouncing off the canyon walls, it’s on the broken bridge, close to the edge. McCree lets his shoulders ease a fraction, at least until he hears the roar of hover bikes rolling up. 

“Looks like the odds have changed, Mr. Shadow.” She says. “How’s your luck looking now?” 

He lets his field of vision skew slightly, keeping his aim on the three in front of him while counting the approaching reinforcements. The numbers don’t look good. Coogan has planned to lose men on this operation and offset those losses accordingly. Idly, he wonders how the man ever got so many people to follow him. He certainly can't remember now.  


“I’ll take my chances.” 

She decides to take hers as well and goes for her gun again. So do her companions. The resulting firefight lasts three seconds. In those three seconds, McCree kills the remaining gang members, gets winged in the leg and the side, and takes slight shrapnel damage when one of their bullets goes wide and shatters a picture frame next to his head. 

He takes a moment to catch his breath and reload. Outside, the other gang members are readying themselves for a fight, wary of the gunshots from within. 

“You six, stay on task. I want that bomb.” A familiar voice like gravel on a belt sander barks orders. It sends a chill down McCree’s spine to remember it, to hear it unchanged. “The rest of you, go see what idiot pulled their gun in the middle of a job. I want an explanation, and they only need to be in enough pieces to talk.” 

Anger and outrage coalesce in McCree’s heart like atoms in the heart of a star. 

He moves to the door with that wrath boiling in his veins, the heat of it lighting up his nerves like the high noon sun on his back even though it’s far too late in the day. 

“ **Step right up** .” The surprised gang members hesitate; a fatal mistake. McCree fires, fanning the hammer for what feels like forever. More than six bodies fall to the ground. A lot more. His head swims in fire and light, drowning in impossible numbers. He hears Abuela Muerte’s soft muttering:  _ uno, dos, tres, quatro, cinco, seis, siete, ocho, nueve… _

_ Diez _ , he thinks, rolling back behind the dinner door and reloading with a shaking hand. He lost his heartbeat somewhere between the pounding of the hammer, and in the brief silence that follows, he’s not sure he’ll get it back. 

“I know that trick,” growls Coogan. “I’ll be damned if it isn’t li’l Jesse McCree!” 

“Ain’t so little no more, Coogan.” McCree shouts back. “And I’m sure as hell not about to let you walk off with whatever it is you’re after here.” 

“Don’t see how you can stop me, McCree. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a whole hell of a lot more of us than there are of you. What’ve you got, aside from that little trick? Bet you can’t do it again.” 

McCree thinks his head will explode if he attempts, but he pastes a feral grin on his face anyway. 

“You wanna try me? I got a good eye, a hell of a lot of patience, and justice on my side.” 

“Justice don’t go near folks like us, McCree. Yeah, I seen you in the papers! Don’t you go thinking you’re some kind of hero!” 

McCree pulls back on the rush of rage that tries to drag him along. He focuses instead on the sounds outside, how many enemies are left, where they stand. There’s too many, he knows. 

He hears gunshots above, winches screaming, lines snapping taut, and the sounds of something heavy being unloaded onto a hover cart. He steps out again, takes a few shots, but nothing as damaging as that first volley. It looks like they’re loading some kind of bomb, and damn if that doesn’t mean he has to be even more careful now. A weapon that size could be nuclear. Coogan has definitely lost it if he’s jacking military trains for nukes. 

One lucky gang member gets him in the shoulder, but he doesn’t feel the pain, just the jerk of the impact. He staggers back. Another shot rips through his scarf, close enough to burn his neck. A third knocks off his hat. He ducks behind the wall.  

“He’s just one man!” Coogan howls. “Get after him!’ 

“Anyone who wants to abandon that asshole’s side and walk away, I’m willing to let you walk.” McCree shouts back. “Anyone who stays, well, there’s ten good reasons on the ground why you should change your mind.” 

A few people mutter between themselves, but Coogan snaps unintelligible curses and all too clear threats at them, and silence falls in the ranks. 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

McCree takes a steadying breath. The sharp pains of his wounds send a hitch through his lungs and tremors through his hand. What he wouldn’t give for one of Soldier’s biotic emitters right now…

The absence of his team crashes into him all at once, no longer held at bay by his lonesome hunter. Tactics play across his mind like chess games played in the blink of an eye: where he could use D.Va, where he’d have Reaper shadow-step, the path Lúcio would take. He misses having Hanzo at his back as strongly as if someone has taken one of his lungs. 

He’s let himself get so carried away tracking Coogan that he’s forgotten lone wolves die where the pack lives. 

 

Coogan’s people approach the front entrance cautiously. McCree retreats to the side door, down by the canyon’s edge, and slips behind some rocks as they storm the front. 

If he can fall back to the garage, he can grab the medpack stashed in the back. If he can--

“There he is!” Coogan roars. 

McCree spins around and shoots at the nearest threat, but it’s not Coogan. He takes down some other gang member, and the shot leaves him open from the side. Coogan’s bullets don’t miss; two skim his arm, and one slams into his chest. McCree thinks he feels a rib crack, and he automatically falls back under the impact. 

 

The canyon swallows him. 


	9. Chapter 9

**HERE AND NOW:**

* * *

 

Hanzo summons ShadowWatch. He doesn’t quite share Jesse’s love of thematic names, but it seems appropriate to think of them that way when Jesse so painstakingly chose that call sign, especially since they’re being summoned for his sake. 

_ SHADOWWATCH ALERT: MISSING IN ACTION - JESSE MCCREE _

Gabriel arrives first, stepping out of the shadows almost as soon as Hanzo hits send. 

“Where is he?” Reaper demands, closing in with a murderous growl. 

“If I knew, I would not have sent it out as MIA.” Hanzo refuses to back down, even when Reaper’s eyes glow a bloodthirsty shade of crimson. Fortunately, Jack’s heavy bootsteps come pounding up the hall at a speed Hanzo can’t even match on his best days. 

“What happened?” Jack demands as he bursts through the door. 

“Shimada came back without McCree.” Reaper snarls. 

“Jesse sent me ahead to deliver something and to warn Winston that the comms were compromised.” Hanzo explains before Jack can crowd him too. 

“Shit,” says Jack. 

“Sombra,” growls Gabriel. 

“How did you know?” Hanzo scowls. 

“I had her wipe his record. She must have gotten in then.” 

Ana and Genji come in next, freshly returned from their missions. They immediately tense to the atmosphere and stand to put some space between Reaper and Hanzo. 

“What did McCree send back?” Jack asks. 

“Abuela Muerte entrusted this to McCree before she died.” Hanzo gestures to Vengeance, lying innocently on the table in her sleek black case with her blued steel shining like the very best of intentions. “She designed it for Torbjörn to assemble.” 

“She knew someone was coming after her.” Soldier picks up the gun. “Shit, that’s nearly as heavy as my rifle!” 

“Sombra hacked Abuela’s cameras to deliver to Jesse the identity of the killer, a man named Coogan--” 

“That asshole?” Gabriel practically explodes with rage. Shadows roll off him like storm clouds. 

“Who is Coogan, and why is he so important to finding Jesse?” Genji asks. 

“He used to be the leader of the Deadlocks, the gang Jesse was with when we picked him up,” says Jack. 

“Nasty man,” Ana’s face scrunches up in distaste. “Jesse used to complain of him in the early days, if you put him on enough painkillers.” 

“ **THAT ASSHOLE!** ” Gabriel seethes. Ana coughs indelicately and waves away the thick black smoke. 

“Get ahold of yourself,” she chides. “Or better yet, Jack, get ahold of him.” 

“Don’t know what you expect that to accomplish,” Jack grumbles, but he obliges and grabs Gabriel’s arm. The man re-solidifies under his grasp, but his anger doesn’t subside. 

“I should have killed him years ago. I should have hunted him down and bled him into the desert.” 

Jack tightens his grip and seems to take some pride that Gabriel doesn’t ghost through him. 

“Jesse will be fine,” he says. “He’s smart. He knows what he’s doing.” 

“He’s looking for leads now. I do not know if I cannot get in contact with him because he does not trust the comms, or if something has happened to him.” Hanzo says. “I am returning to America to find him. I request that you all accompany me, if you are able.” 

“You have to ask?” Ana snorts. 

“We are ShadowWatch,” Genji claps his brother on the shoulder. “It is our duty to bring the team home.” 

“No more empty graves,” Jack chimes in, then flinches at the poorly timed catchphrase. 

“No more graves, period.” Gabriel snaps. 

“Very well. Suit up and meet at the ship as soon as you can. I will alert Pharah of our ‘mission’.” Hanzo stands and glances down to the ‘Vengeance’. “We will see what comes of you when we find him again.” 

 

* * *

 

**THERE AND LATER:**

* * *

 

 

McCree wakes up, which is a surprise to him. Everything hurts, which, in retrospect, isn’t a surprise at all. He lays sprawled across a narrow ledge on the canyonside, about ten feet down from the small path he was on when Coogan shot him. 

That’s right, now he remembers: Coogan shot him, and he fell. Why isn’t he dead? Not that he’s complaining. He’s curious, not ungrateful. 

He examines the hole in the cloak that falls over his shoulder and chest. The bullet should have at least nicked his heart, if not gone straight through. He pats his chest and realizes quickly that it would have, had it not met a more stubborn obstruction in the form of the thick, solid body of the razor Gabriel gave him, still tucked in his breast pocket. 

McCree lets out a strangled laugh that makes his ribs ache. Definitely cracked. From the conspicuous silence above, Coogan is gone with his men and his bomb. McCree fumbles for his comm. To hell with Sombra and her hacks; a bomb that big will take out a good sized city. They can’t let Coogan put that on the market. 

The screen is dark and cracked, and none of the buttons respond to his pushing. He curses; it probably broke in the fall. He doesn’t panic. Not yet. 

Instead, he takes stock of his situation. There’s at least ten feet of vertical climbing between him and the road, and he has one, maybe three cracked ribs. More bruised. Minor gunshot wounds to his side, leg, and arm, but the bleeding’s stopped. There’s no sign of Peacekeeper; it’s either in the gorge or someone took it as a trophy. Dead comm. Busted razor. Missing bomb from a military grade train. 

No sign of train staff, feds, or any other human life. 

Now he panics. 

His frantic search for anything useful turns up a busted lighter without fluid, a handful of mints, two lockpicks, a clean handkerchief, and his old Blackwatch comm, the one with Winston’s invitation to the Recall still saved on it. The battery is long dead; Winston’s new devices are a completely different design, and he left his old charger home at the base.

Still… he can work with this. 

It takes some fiddling with wires and parts, but he manages to splice the new comm’s battery into the old comm. It ought to give him a few minutes of connectivity before the wires slag, overheated. 

He hopes someone is listening. He hopes his signal is strong enough. 

He sends out a priority alert, Alpha Clearance, Code Red. 

“This is Agent McCree of Overwatch requesting emergency assistance. Anybody out there?” 

The comm sits, already warm against his ear as he waits in the silence while the last traces of the sun fade away. 

Then, suddenly: 

“Jesse!” Hanzo’s voice nearly breaks with relief. “Where are you?” 

“Hanzo, honey, listen, I don’t have much time. I had a nasty run in with Coogan and his new posse - it wasn’t my fault, I didn’t even know they were gonna be there - and he managed to grab a bomb from a train he jacked. Looked military, might’ve been a nuke.” 

“Jesse--” 

“Old Deadlock used to have a pretty big base around here - south of the Panorama Diner on Route 66, Boss will know the coordinates. Follow the road past the gorge and the garages. Best place to start, near as I can figure.”

“Where are you? We will come get you--” 

“There’s no time!” McCree hisses. He has to switch sides; the comm is too hot for skin contact. “He’s got a bomb, a damn nuke. By the time y'all get here from Gibraltar, it may already be too late. I’m not in any condition to go after him, nor anywhere else, neither.” 

“We are not leaving you.” Hanzo insists. McCree can’t tell if his voice is cracking or if the comm’s wiring is starting to melt. 

“You aren’t leaving me, Heart o’ My Heart,” he says, his own heart breaking at his archer’s stubbornness. “I’m choosing to stay.” 

“ _I_ am  _ not _ leaving you!” Hanzo hisses. “ShadowWatch is --” 

“--Is for the team. If I gotta quit to get you going, well then, I’ll quit.” 

“Jesse--” The comm squeals as its circuits fry, and McCree drops it. He watches it spit sparks and smoke and then go still and dark. 

The air leaves his lungs in a long, shaky rush as he leans against the gorge wall. Overhead, the stars begin to shine. Soon the sun’s warmth will fade from the stone. He has his doubts whether he’ll be able to survive the night’s cold on his tiny bluff. Maybe he’ll try to make the climb anyway. Maybe. 

He hopes they can stop Coogan.

He hopes that Hanzo will one day forgive him. 


	10. Chapter 10

**HERE:**

* * *

 

 

Hanzo curses and drops his comm as it spits out an ear-piercing shriek of dying electronics. Athena, who broadcasted the feed through the speakers based on the priority alert, cuts the signal before it can deafen the others. Genji grabs his brother’s sleeve to keep him from pacing the length of the dropship like a caged tiger.  

“I’m sorry,” he says. His tone is already grieving, and it ignites rage in Hanzo’s blood. 

“He cannot just quit!” he snaps. “What is he thinking?” 

“He is thinking of the bigger picture,” Ana answers. Her face is calm, her voice detached. “McCree is right. We cannot allow a nuclear device onto the black market.” 

“There’s plenty of them out there already,” Reaper growls. “They’re like fucking diamonds. Everyone says they’re important, they’re too fucking expensive, and no one uses them for a damn thing.” 

“Well, the last thing we need is for that greedy pustule of a man to add another to circulation.” She replies. 

“Do what you want. I’m going after my boy.” 

“Gabriel--” 

“Don’t you dare try to tell me you’d leave Fareeha if she was in the same position.” 

“At some point,” Ana tenses enough to start fraying, “you have to accept that they will make their own choices, and it will not be your place to stop or countermand them.” 

“That is  _ my boy _ , Ana! I’ve failed him before, but I’m not going to fail him now! I promised him!” 

“We are ShadowWatch,” Hanzo agrees. “We bring the team home. No more empty graves.” 

“You would ignore his request of you?” Genji demands, sharper than he intends if the way he flinches at the sound of his own voice is any indication. He still straightens up under Hanzo’s glare. “He was willing to quit the team so that you could focus on the bomb!” 

“ **IS!** ” Hanzo yells. “He  _ is _ willing. Do not dare to speak of him as if he is already dead!” 

Jack turns around from the cockpit of the ship and walks down to the rest of them. For the first time in years, he carries himself like a commander again, and they can’t help but turn to see on which side he will weigh in.

“That punk,” he says, “can  _ not _ do his damn paperwork.” 

“Jack?” The lashing shadows around Gabriel settle down a little. 

“He didn’t do it last time, and he didn’t do it this time. There’s three damn pages he’s gotta fill out in triplicate if he wants to resign, and they have to be signed by two commanding officers. Without ‘em, he’s still on the team and accountable to it.” Jack shakes his head. “But in deference to the fact that there is a fucking bomb at stake here, I’m going to propose we split up. Genji, Ana and I will scout out this base he mentioned. He thinks we’re still in Gibraltar, so we’re well ahead of his schedule. Hanzo, you and Gabe go get your boy. He can’t be too far; the train tracks go right above Panorama, and that’s pretty close to the base. Once you get him, we’ll all meet up, Ana will get him healed, and we’ll hit Coogan hard enough the grandkids he’ll never have can feel it. Sound like a plan?” 

Gabriel responds by nearly pulling Jack off his feet, crushing him to his chest. His clawed gloves dig into Jack’s jacket, his face presses into the curve where shoulder and throat meet. Jack flinches as Gabriel breathes onto the sensitive skin there, the sound ragged and relieved and nearly ten years overdue. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, so softly that Jack almost mistakes it for an exhale. Jack blushes at the sudden, public intimacy suffusing the moment and splays his hands across Gabriel's back.

“Yeah, well, I should have said it the last time he failed to quit.” 

“Arriving at Route 66,” Athena announces, and Gabriel steps back. The expression on his face is softer than any seen by pretty much everyone except Jesse, and he only leaves it exposed for an instant before he pulls down his mask and prepares to move out. 

 

* * *

**THERE:**

* * *

 

 

Jesse loses time; it’s harder to keep track of by the moon’s passage, and he can’t see it well anyway from his perch. By the time the cold creeps in, he’s only halfway up the cliffside. Everything is either numb or in pain. He thinks he might risk puncturing a lung if he reaches for the next handhold, but he’s starting to lose the feeling in his fingers, too. He wonders if he’ll survive falling back to the ledge in his current condition. 

Still, it’s too soon for hallucinations. The moonlight casts a strong shadow underneath him, and he doesn’t understand at first why it ripples and swells. Then strong arms grab him around the middle, and pain consumes his thoughts. He chokes on his curses and the grip loosens, moves lower to lift him from the hips. 

“Easy, Firecracker. I’ve got you.” Gabriel’s voice hits conflicting points in his brain, signaling safety, danger, grief, and joy all at the same time. 

“Boss--” he gasps. He feels the strain ease off his arms and legs, feels himself being lifted and gently laid on the ground. 

“When we get home, we will be having words about the appropriate way to end a conversation,” says Hanzo, tearing open Jesse's vest and shirt. As far as hallucinations go, this is a pretty good one. Hanzo gives him a sharp look and a sharper jab with an injectable medpack. The cool tingling sensation of low-grade biotics and moderate anesthetics spreads through his chest. 

“Heart o’ My Heart?” He murmurs, part rapturously and part disbelieving. 

“Do not ‘Heart o’ My Heart’ me, Jesse McCree.” Hanzo growls, investigating the health pack’s progress. “How dare you attempt to quit in the middle of the job?” 

“I’m sorry, Hanzo.” Jesse mumbles. “I was trying to get y'all to the bomb ‘fore my comm fried. Had to use the old one and jury-rig a different battery.” Hanzo’s expression softens, but only slightly. 

“The others are scouting ahead. Once you’re on your feet, we will regroup, and Ana can see to your wounds properly.” 

“Wait, you haven’t got the bomb yet?” McCree struggles to sit up. His body responds sluggishly, but without the same pain that dogged him earlier. 

“Firecracker, it’s been twenty minutes since you called.” Gabriel grunts. 

“... what?” 

“We were already en route when your message came in.” Hanzo says. “I tried to tell you.” 

“Twenty minutes? You would have been flying over…” Jesse gapes. Hanzo refuses to be embarrassed and draws himself up stiffly. 

“I told you I would return as soon as I was able.” 

“With a whole team?” 

“You were distressed, and I have more distressing news to deliver. It was fortuitous, as we now have a full team to retrieve this bomb, and your villain has only had a small head start.” 

“What’s more distressing than trying to get a cup of coffee and having a gang steal a bomb right in front of you?” Jesse asks, pure confusion coloring his tone. Hanzo hands him the sleek black case, which Jesse nearly drops in surprise at the weight. 

“She named her daughter ‘Vengeance’,” he says, “And she is not meant to be fired.” 

“That’s what guns do,” Jesse’s brow creases. “Especially Abuela Muerte’s guns. They’re made to shoot.” 

“Not this one.” Hanzo grabs McCree’s wrist. “She will harm you. She may even kill you. Torbjörn says the recoil will shatter a human wrist.” McCree waves his prosthetic arm. “He also warned about backfire.” 

“Backfire.” McCree blinks, shakes his head, and opens the box. Vengeance is sleek lines and scrollwork, blued steel with black and silver accents. She couldn’t more perfectly match his Mystery Man disguise if Abuela Muerte had tried. For as large and as heavy as she is, she looks elegant, almost artistic. He hefts the gun experimentally with his left arm, finds the grip fits easily against the plates of his palm and fingers, as if it were made to the measurements of his hand. The lock light taunting turns from red to blue. 

“Did you hear me?” Hanzo asks. “Firing this gun may cost you your life.” 

“That’s a risk I take every time I pull the trigger, honey.” He slips it into his empty holster and misses Peacekeeper something awful. 

“Jesse.” Hanzo touches his chest and scowls as his fingers find the bullet hole from Coogan’s shot. 

“That’s the second time one of Boss’s razors has saved my life.” Jesse muses. Gabriel huffs. 

“If you’d worn your armor, it wouldn’t have had to.” He turns away. “Firecracker. We’ll get you a different gun.” 

“Abuela Muerte asked me to carry her.” McCree says stubbornly. “So carry her I shall.” 

“Carry, yes. I brought her so you may keep your word.” Hanzo’s fingers dig into the cloth of the drape. “But do not use. You carry her vengeance; do not let it destroy you.” 

“Ain’t gonna be much help without firing. All I’m good for is putting--” 

Gabriel drops a hand on his shoulder and squeezes hard enough to aggravate his half-healed wounds. 

“Don’t finish that sentence,” he growls. “It isn’t true. Not anymore. We’ll get you another gun.” 

McCree sighs. Hanzo leans up and in, pressing his forehead to Jesse’s. 

“You are too good to waste yourself on Vengeance, beloved. You have too many who will not let you go that way.” 

“Yeah, all right.” McCree says. “You win.” 


	11. Chapter 11

**HERE AND NOW:**

* * *

 

 

The six members of the ShadowWatch team stare down at the veritable army Coogan has assembled, and each in their own words thinks the same thing. Only Jack says it out loud: 

“Well. Fuck.” 

They could take the base. Easily, even. Any of them can, with just a little bit of effort, massacre swathes of the gang members pressed like sardines down below without assistance from their five teammates. They just aren’t sure they  _ want _ to. 

“They’re so young.” Ana whispers, horrified. 

“Some of ‘em.” McCree nods, eyes skimming the ranks. He knows what to look for among the sprawl of ages. “Don’t try and tell any of them that, though.” 

“How do you want to do this?” Jack asks. “Lot of people down there. Could be hard to make sure you only get the ones you mean to.” 

“Speak for yourself.” McCree snorts. 

“Well, I’ve got automatic fire, and Gabe has spread, so, yeah. I do.” 

McCree says nothing at first, he just stares down, eyes narrow and dark. 

“Reverse Nuisance Brigade. Monologue variation, Aggro on me.”

_ Nuisance Brigade - a  large distracting force occupies the enemy while a smaller force moves the objective. Reversed, the numbers switch. _

__ _ Monologue variation - appeal to the enemy’s ego and tendency to grandstand as a distraction. _

_ Aggro on me - all eyes will be on me.  _

It all boils down to a terrible, terrible plan: 

_ I’ll keep them busy. Get the payload and get going. _

Jack tenses. Ana snaps her head around to glare at him. Shadows writhe around Gabriel. Genji grabs Hanzo’s arm. Hanzo and Jesse meet each other’s eyes, speaking without a word. Then...

“I will have an arrow on him, and the dragons on everyone else.” Hanzo warns him. 

“All right. Try not to rampage before I give a signal.” 

Hanzo huffs and straightens up. 

“If he shoots you again, a rampage will be the least of your worries.” 

“We just got him back! How can you be okay with this stupid plan?” Gabriel hisses. 

“There are young people down there. Do they not deserve the same chance you offered Jesse?” 

Gabriel scowls and drags his mask down. 

“You’re overestimating my redemption arc,” he rumbles, but he doesn’t protest when McCree elbows him gently.

“It’s all right, Boss. I ain’t going out there guns blazin’, just shaking them up a little, see if I can’t get some of them to head on home.”

“I will drag you out of hell and put you back there myself if you screw up.” 

“You focus on getting that payload outta here before he notices,” McCree smiles, the same predatory smile that met Gabriel across a table more than twenty years ago. 

Soldier tugs on Reaper’s elbow, and Gabriel lets himself be drawn away with one last glower. 

“Be careful,” Ana says, squeezing his arm. 

“Aren’t I always?” 

“You most certainly are not,” says Genji, poking the hole in the cape. He pauses, turns to Hanzo instead, and continues. “Watch your temper, brother.” 

Genji, Ana, Soldier:76 and Reaper follow McCree’s directions and slip along back halls, disappearing through the back way to the loading dock. Hanzo climbs silently into the rafters and takes up a perch high above the uneasy Deadlock heads. 

McCree slips back outside and, with the audacity of one who has cheated Death, knocks on the front door. 

“Coogan!” He bellows, grinning at the way his voice echoes in the gorge and the cavernous base. “Coogan! Are you afraid to face the ghosts you made? Open the door, Coogan. Or don’t. It’s all the same to me.” He knocks again, and a trio of newbie gang members jump out. Jesse’s a little insulted by that: first, that there’s only three of them; second, that they’re so green they’re still trying to one-handedly shoot guns with far too much recoil; and third, they’re so damn young. He disarms two of them with casual strikes and grabs the gun clean out of the third one’s hands, ejecting the clip and wasting the chambered shot into the ground. 

“This is a Reckoning Day,” he says, curling the fingers of his prosthetic into a grip strong enough to crush reinforced steel. Newbie’s gun is not one of Abuela Muerte’s; it's a cheap and poorly maintained piece of shit that hasn’t misfired only by luck, and the barrel crumples in his hand. “I reckon you three better reconsider your life choices. I speak from experience: Coogan’s not going to give you anything you want. Not family, not respect, not power. Didn’t even give you a decent chance to defend yourself.” He jerks his chin in the direction of the road. “Ain’t no shame in walking away while you can still walk.” 

Wisely, they run. McCree tosses the scrapped gun and ducks inside. 

“Coogan,” he calls into the halls. “You’re sending kids after me now? Where are you getting them? You been hanging around middle schools in a white van or something?” 

Another group of gang members rush him. They’re not young, and there’s enough of them he has to fight dirty, letting them shoot each other as he rolls out of the way and lobs flashbangs. McCree starts raising his voice so that it echoes off the walls. 

“Now this is how I remember you, Coogan! Sending us all to die one after another, weeding out the weak and the lucky along with anyone you just plumb didn’t like. How many lives are you going to waste tonight? How many of these people are you going to lead straight to the grave?” 

Whispers echo in the halls. McCree  drops down from a platform behind someone who looks like they’re closer to his age, grapples the man, and lets him take all six shots from the girl standing next to him. McCree gives her steady hand an impressed nod. 

“There’s better places to be applying that skill,” he says, still using the man as a shield. “Be a pity to throw it away on Coogan.” She snarls; he remembers being so full of fight that it spilled out of every pore. She doesn’t back down, and he has to throw his captive at her to knock her down so he can knock her out. 

“Seriously, what kind of loyalty B.S. are you feeding ‘em?” McCree calls out. “Y'all know he will straight up leave your ass for the feds, right? He’s pulled this shit before, lost the entire original Deadlock--” 

“MCCREE!” 

Bingo. 

“You bellowed, sir?” He leans around a pole to smile cheekily in the direction of the sound. Coogan stands on top of a shipping crate above what has to be at least two dozen armed people, but his subordinates have lost their keenness. Several of them have even slipped away from the mass and edge towards the doors. What catches McCree’s eye, however, is that Coogan has Peacekeeper. “My oh my, sir, you’re just pulling out all the cheesy villain tropes for this, ain’t you? You gonna cackle next? Mind you watch your back at your age.” 

“What the fuck is it you want, McCree, that makes you come here and mess up my operations with your bull?” Coogan sneers. “You looking for revenge ‘cause you couldn’t make the cut all those years ago?” 

McCree snorts. Coogan’s showmanship game seems petty and pathetic these days, especially compared to the shit Jesse saw in Blackwatch. 

“Dropping a freshly-minted seventeen-year-old in front of Overwatch all by his lonesome hardly counts as ‘a cut’. At least, not the way you mean.” 

“And yet you’re here, ain’t you? How far and how fast did you have to run?” 

“I don’t run.” McCree says. “Not when it counts.” 

“Ya either ran or ya sang.” 

“I don’t run when it counts,” he repeats coolly. “You wouldn’t risk a wooden nickle on any of your people. Making it out of the shit you dropped me in was climbing, not running.” 

Coogan levels Peacekeeper at McCree’s chest. In the same instant, McCree draws Vengeance and aims it at Coogan’s head. McCree’s mercenary smile slides across his face like a sidewinder, and something in his eyes makes Coogan’s finger freeze on the trigger. 

“Anyone who walks now gets to walk away, no questions asked.” McCree says. There’s a rattler in his voice, a desert warning for anyone who cares to listen. “I ain’t here for any of y'all, just this one asshole who put himself back on my list after twenty years. He ain’t worth your lives. Walk away.” 

“There’s twenty of us and only one of you.” One of the cocky ones points out. McCree feels the fire rage and warp, burning in his skin and eyes. The cocky one pulls back a bit. 

“I killed ten of your people with six bullets,” he drawls. “This here is Abuela Muerte’s daughter, a gun without peer and a clip of twelve. Do you really want to see how far I can fudge the math?” 

“Abuela Muerte’s daughter?” Coogan’s eyes narrow. “So it was  _ you _ the old bag gave her to.” 

“See what you get when you can be assed to come back for people?” McCree gives his gun a slight shake, just enough to keep everyone’s attention on it instead of him. “She’s missing her brother something fierce, Coogan.” 

“Oh, I’ll reunite them soon enough.” 

Chaos descends as the stand-off shatters. McCree goes to fire, remembers his promise, and hesitates. Coogan does not, and his shot slams into McCree’s chest. Miraculously, it hits the razor still in his pocket. Less miraculously, it cracks McCree’s ribs a second time, and Vengeance goes flying from his hand as nerves spasm. Somewhere above and too far away to see the bullet stop, Hanzo screams his rage and grief to the heavens, and the twin dragons tear through the base in a less graceful spiral than their usual appearances. Those gang members who were not demoralized enough to slip away before now drop their guns and flee for their lives. Coogan panics and starts to run, only to get an arrow to the leg. Peacekeeper goes sliding across the pavement and past his sister. 

Hanzo drops from the rafters and starts pushing his way through the terrified mob. McCree and Coogan lunge for the guns on the floor, scrambling to escape being trampled as they go. Coogan grabs Vengeance just before McCree gets to Peacekeeper, and he raises it with a manic, rabid grin. 

“Goodbye, McCree!” He laughs and pulls the trigger. The red light on Vengeance’s safety lock blinks.

Time slows. 

Vengeance explodes in Coogan’s hand, one bolt flying forward, the next jamming in the loading mechanism and causing a backfire that detonates the remaining ammo. Flesh shreds and bones shatter. McCree takes no satisfaction from the man’s grisly end, not when he has the first bolt still coming for him. He doubts even Gabriel’s razor will stop something that big.

He rolls into action. His trigger finger is faster than his legs, his eyes are faster than his finger. He fires six impossible shots: the first hits the bolt dead on, makes it wobble, and each sequential shot drives it further to the side. Finally, it lodges into the ground beside him. 

 

Time resumes. 

 

McCree’s heart pounds against his busted ribs as Hanzo slides onto his knees beside him, eyes wide and frantic. 

“I saw him shoot you.” He reaches for McCree’s chest hesitantly. 

“Hit the razor.” He offers a weak smile, shaken by the repeated close calls. “Again. Glad you talked me out of firing, though.” 

Hanzo graciously refrains from an “I told you so” and chooses instead to help Jesse to his feet. The main hall is empty of enemies, so they head quickly in the direction of the loading docks to catch up with the rest of the team. 

 

Jesse coasts on the feeling that everything will be okay. All the broken promises he’s collected over the years have been destroyed to save the present and bury the past. He’s survived certain death on a wing and a prayer, and he’s confident his team has done the same. 

Then he hears an explosion. His first reaction is to cover Hanzo. Hanzo has the same thought, and they go down in a tangle of limbs trying to protect each other. No searing, radioactive death follows, so whatever exploded, it wasn’t the stolen bomb. McCree and Hanzo scramble towards the sound. 

They pass bodies in the loading dock and on the road beyond. Through the open doors, they see the signs of a battle fought well and ended by spite. Smoke wafts through the moonlight and the floodlights on the walls that illuminate the payload. There’s a large scorch mark on the pavement a little ways from the truck, along with the remains of a man who had been too eager to use his burgeoning demolitions skills and too stupid to use his common sense. Ana and Genji are on the other side of the truck, knocked off their feet and winded, but between the truck and the remains of the bomber is a different mess. 

Jack sprawls on his stomach, covered by in thick, chunky, oleaginous liquid. Parts of it almost resemble human remains.

“Damn it, Gabe, I would have made it.” Jack grumbles as he pushes himself up. “You didn’t have to jump me.” 

McCree has seen some awful wounds and horrific deaths, but his stomach still turns as he realizes the charred, ruined thing is Reaper. Worse still is the realization that Gabriel isn’t answering, that he  _ drains _ to the side rather than slumps. He’s liquid smoke and pulpy shadow, dripping away and evaporating into the night before their eyes. He's little more than scars and teeth left, just enough for a face. 

“Boss!” Jesse shouts. It strains his cracked ribs, which revolt from the abuse they've already taken, and he stumbles. Jack rights himself in a flash, reaching for biotic emitters and coming up empty. 

“Gabe?” He moves to touch Gabriel’s shoulder, but his hand sinks into the darkness, and he recoils. 

“Jack?” Gabriel rumbles. The sound seems to come from far away, and it fades quickly. “You okay?” 

“Yeah, Gabe, I’m okay.” 

Gabriel smiles, then, really smiles. For one moment the expression illuminates the curves of his lips and the creases by his eyes, radiating satisfaction and that feeling which hangs unspoken between them. He raises one fading, disintegrating hand and grazes Jack’s visor-covered face. 

“Good.” 

 

And then he’s gone, without even a stain on the pavement. 

 

McCree stares, ears ringing in the silent night. 

Jack’s fingers claw at the empty space, scraping on the concrete. His breath rasps against his mouth guard. It hitches: once, twice, three times before resolving into a word. 

“Gabe?” 

Ana climbs to her feet, limps over, and touches his back. 

“Oh, Jack.” 

“Gabe.” 

“Jack, he’s--” 

“GABE!” Jack howls, and it echoes off the canyon walls. 

 

Jesse closes his eyes. Holds his breath. Makes a wish to whatever forces look out for old soldiers. 

“What?” demands Gabriel, reappearing suddenly in the garage door and chewing on something that flashes like embers and smokes between his teeth. “Why are you yelling?” 

“Boss?” Jesse nearly falls over. 

“Gabriel!” Ana chides. 

“What?” He straightens up defensively. “All the souls are still inside. I got blown up. I’m hungry. Give me a break.” 

“Gabe!” Jack launches himself at Gabriel, wrapping him in an embrace that makes Jesse’s ribs ache just to watch. “You asshole, I thought you died!” 

“I died a while back, Jackie, but thanks for noticing.” 

“I mean for real!” 

“What, like-- Oh.  _ Oh. _ ” 

That’s about the point that Jesse decides there are things about those two he really does not need to know, such as whether Jack kisses with his eyes open and where Gabriel’s hands go when he uses tongue. Jesse turns to Hanzo and focuses on the warmth of his archer’s eyes, the giddy, disbelieving relief there. 

“Well now,” he says as Hanzo curls his fingers around Jesse's wrist and tugs him closer for their own reassurance. “How about that.” 


	12. Chapter 12

**FORWARD:**

* * *

 

 

They have a short ceremony for Abuela Muerte, burying the slagged remains of Vengeance in a small garden at Gibraltar. She was never a part of the organization properly, but it feels disrespectful to not acknowledge the small contribution she made by giving them their weapons. Torbjörn says a few words. Jack says a few more, but no one really knows what she would have liked to hear. 

McCree stands up last, clearing his throat uncomfortably before speaking. 

“The things we do… they ain’t always nice, and they ain’t always easy, but we do ‘em ‘cause they need doing. It’s good to know that the tools she gave us are the best of the best, and that we can rely on them to help others and to bring our people home. For that, Abuela, we thank you.” 

He bows his head. One day, he may have to stand up and speak at another funeral. One day, someone may have to speak at his. 

 

But not today. 

 

* * *

 

**AND EVER ON:**

* * *

 

 

They celebrate life: the lives they live, the lives they lost, the lives they save, and all those yet to come. The base rings with laughter. Someone drags out the karaoke machine. Someone else breaks out the booze. Bets are made, won, lost, and cheated on. 

Jesse McCree sits back and watches his teammates live. The younger ones try to teach the latest dance craze to some of the older ones. Others watch on in amusement and affection. In one corner, Gabriel and Jack sit squished together in a massive armchair that’s still not big enough for the both of them, though neither of them seem to mind. In another, Genji and Hanzo bicker good-naturedly about the lyrics of a song. 

 

Jesse feels a little removed, but in a good way. He can see all of his people, his whole pack, safe and happy. He has purpose, he has hope burning in him like a fire, and he has someone with whom he can share it all. He could ask for no more of the universe, and when the day comes that fortune hands him the bill, he will pay it gladly for moments such as this. 

 

Hanzo breaks away and comes to sit on the armrest beside him, tangling one hand in his hair.

“Heart o’ My Heart.” Jesse smiles at him. 

“Beloved,” Hanzo smiles back, “welcome home.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading through the end of the "Lone Wolf" 'verse! I hope you enjoyed the ride.


End file.
